The Tourist
by MarionArnold
Summary: Tim meets an OC someone in a bar – there is some excitement. But she has an agenda to being in Kentucky – it leads her down to Harlan County. A small fic about how her agenda interacts with the Marshal service and some of the other residents of Harlan. Based from S1 and S2 only and set somewhere before the end of S2.
1. Chapter 1

Hello and welcome (back) to my bizarre little world. I have recently watched S1 and S2 of _Justified_ and this fic started rolling in my head and although I really should be doing other things I decided to write it down. And since it is written, I thought I may as well post. Please bear with me as I try and get a handle on these characters.

TWD fandom readers will recognise the name of the OC but rest assured she has not moved universe, she is _entirely_ a different person – I am just lazy about thinking up a new name.

My intention was to work my slowly into M rated material, but I have had to submit to the muse and this chapter is more M than not. I have also had to play around with two timelines – I _think _I have my tenses correct but you will need to concentrate. Hope you enjoy.

Mandatory disclaimer – if you've seen it on tv, it is not mine. Everything else, unless noted, is mine originally (if not exclusively).

Chapter 1

_Fuck_ she thought but the sound that came out of her mouth was more of a moan. She traced her hand from where his was currently rolling her nipple between his thumb and finger until she found his shoulder, taking a firm grasp to drag him up from her nether regions before she exploded.

Not that she had a problem exploding; it's just that she wanted to do it with him, not by herself.

She had noticed him as soon as he had come into the seedy bar that she was sitting in; she could tell with just one look that he didn't belong. He had worn a collared shirt, a small triangle of his white undershirt showing above the first unbuttoned slot, a casual sports jacket hanging open, a clean pair of jeans and a nice pair of loafers. His face was lean, with a rather cute nose and perfect cupid's bow lips; he was clean shaven and his hair showed evidence of some care – there was no evidence of piercings or tattoos. She had taken all of that in with one glance and then turned away so as not to attract undue attention, but kept enough of her gaze on him that she had seen the way his eyes had looked over the room before he had committed himself to enter. _Cop_ she had thought initially and while outwardly she didn't stiffen noticeably, years of experience tightened muscles in readiness and she had kept an eye on him. She had changed her mind even before he sat down and started drinking, although he was drinking too freely to be a cop, well certainly an on-duty one. It had been a certain _something_ in his walk; a walk that lacked the swagger that most cops his age adopted, but rather was balanced, lithe, smooth, almost a, and it took her some consideration to find the appropriate adjective, _prowl_. It was the walk of a man with quiet but innate confidence in his abilities. It had been _fucking' sexy_ and then he'd bent over slightly to sit, tightening his jeans around his rear end and she'd felt her body react in anticipation.

He smirked at her as he lifted his head at her tug but took his own time as he moved up along her naked torso, touching his lips to a hip bone, across her flat stomach and on each rib until he found the red peak of her breast, practically demanding attention. He lavished some on it, enclosing it with his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, feeling her jerk slightly, hearing the gasps from her with each touch. He closed his teeth over her, grazing against her flesh gently at the same time that he pushed a finger into her wet opening. She hissed, arching up into him, her hands curling into a shoulder and the back of his head.

_This was an unexpected development to the day _he thought as he landed on his back, looking up as she straddled him and then bent her head to his chest.

The day had been ordinary – nothing outstanding. He had used up most of the day moving and settling a new Witsec candidate – taking custodianship from the New York marshal, then running him through the documentation and rules of the programme then driving down to Redbud to place him in the small shack on the outskirts of the township. Rachel had accompanied him for the drive, and their eyes had met in unspoken amusement as the witness had complained about the absence of signal for his phone and moaned about the likely speed of the internet. Painstakingly he had once again gone through the concept that someone convicted of computer fraud and about to testify against some particularly nasty people whose records he happened to access really should not be accessing the internet for more than the telephone directory. He hadn't been confident that it had sunk in, but they had left him in his new life and driven back up in companionable silence broken occasionally by snippets about how quick Nick was growing and what he was doing. A dinner date for the Sunday may have been made – he would have to confirm with Rachel _because damn if he could even process a thought at the moment_.

His head rolled back as her teeth grazed over his nipple, her hand tracking over his stomach and then to feather across the top of his now far too tight jeans. She followed the track with her mouth and his breath hitched as her warm breath penetrated the fabric. She looked up, her brown eyes sparkling impishly and then returned her mouth to his belly, tracing along the line of his belt as her hands worked on the buckle, the button and then the zipper underneath. He moaned as her hand slid between the fabric, clasping his shaft firmly and running down its length.

Marion smiled at his reaction, both the physical jerk within her hand and under her lips as well as the guttural groan that escaped his lips.

She shouldn't be here, she _knew_ that: she had heard her cautious inner voice 'ad nauseum' on the topic. She _knew _she should already be in Harlan County, getting the lie of the land and ready to follow up on the research that she had already done to make sure that there would be no hitches to the plan. But she'd had an uncomfortable flight next to an obese man who didn't know what deodorant was and took all of the potential spare leg room. While her comfort wouldn't normally be enough to put her off her target, Google maps had showed the terrain as hilly without actually identifying where she needed to go. She had an, what she considered healthy, aversion to being lost in a strange, potentially hostile, place when it was dark and she had been hungry. So after she had found the car, using the key which had been mailed to her to start it and make sure everything worked smoothly she had stowed her stuff in a cheap motel room which didn't worry about writing names in a book as long as the cash was paid up front. Then she had followed the desk clerk's instruction, a man who was obviously smarter than he looked, to the nearest place which served alcohol and edible food. The dump that she walked into was exactly what she had been looking for: poor lighting which concentrated on the girls gyrating up and down poles rather than on the patrons who watched – some eagerly as if the spectacle was satisfying some type of need within them, others with dull eyes as if they were barely seeing what was before them but were in fact seeing something else vividly.

_He_ had been one of the latter and while there had been a couple of dancers that actually did dance a bit before they stripped and she had been enjoying the music, the sight of all those breasts and far too much hairless skin in other bodily areas had started to pale on her. But instead of getting up and heading back for some shuteye _like she should _she had found herself watching him more and more as the night wore on, examining his side profile in the mirrors behind the bar from the safety of her dark booth. She had narrowed her eyes at not only the consumption but the calibre of his drinking, recognised the strategy of trying to get oneself drunk; a different time and place she might have been playing the same game, and she had wondered what ghosts haunted him that he went to it with such determination. Her aim was normally that point where there was a slight delay between moving her eyes and seeing what her eyes were looking at; but he seemed to be trying to get to the point where he couldn't walk.

_Not that it seemed to affect him much_ she laughed as he lifted her up and flipped her back underneath him and ground his now freed erection into her centre, making her groan again.

He had noticed _her_ as soon as he had opened the door. The bar was one of his favourite haunts: it wasn't classy by any standards, but the drinks weren't watered, the waitresses knew not to offer him any extras beyond the drinks on their trays and there was no overt drug dealing or anything else he would have felt constrained to intervene in. Most importantly – no-one from the office would ever dream of going there. Although when he saw her – sitting at a booth at the rear of the room, clean, dressed in a tailored short sleeved blouse and what could have been tailored slacks with a bottle of some type of lolly water in front of her it had crossed his mind that Art had sent someone to watch him. But her eyes had slid off him and she had ignored him as he started drinking.

He had all but forgotten about her within a short space of time, keeping his eyes on the stage although in truth he hadn't really seen the figures contorting in front of him. They were a backdrop to the memories of this time of the year, when there had been chaos all around him, when his friends had dropped full of shrapnel, when he had held Pete's hand as he had bled out, when he run across that open plain to get his position and earned ... _one of those medals_. Bravery had never entered his head – keeping the small number of men alive had been. He didn't think he was the one who should have got the medal – that belonged to the men who died.

It had been the accent as she ordered her meal that had dragged him out of his memories. It wasn't heard that often in Kentucky, let alone in this particular area of Lexington, but it was heard commonly enough in the military zones of Afghanistan and Iraq. The soldiers who spoke with it walked with a calm assurance that made all but their contemporaries step to the side, any soldier who thought that he would get any respect by standing up to them firmly put on his 'arse' without delay but without lasting malice – they never appeared to take anything seriously, except when on patrol. The Rangers respected them – didn't meant that there wasn't a healthy rivalry and a whole lot of bravado about who was the best and the hardest soldier, but he'd never had a problem having the SASR at his back. He had used the mirror of the bar to look her over, drinking comfortably in silence with her eyes on the stage, seeing that she looked at everyone who entered the bar and wondered if she was waiting for someone.

He pushed himself off the bed, dragging down his jeans and underwear and placed them on the floor near his jacket and shirts, being careful to let his backup disappear inside the fabric and not make an audible thump on the floor. He reached for his jacket and extracted his wallet, leaving his warrant card in the pocket, producing the foil packet with a slight grin and meeting her eyes.

Marion sighed in satisfaction – casual sex was all fun but the potential after effects weren't and she was relieved that he at least was prepared. She sat up, sliding forward so that her legs were either side of him and took the packet from his hand. She tore it open quickly and dropped the empty packet, leaning forward to place her lips on his tip, extending her tongue to capture the sweet moisture that was beading there. He groaned, his hands gripped her shoulders tightly and she replaced her mouth with her hands, rolling the condom on quickly.

He pushed her back onto the bed, leaning over her and following as she scooted up until her head was back on the pillows. Then she pushed herself up, meeting his mouth hungrily, pushing her tongue into his mouth and tasting him, then allowing him to push her back to the pillows, submitting to his demand for dominance as his hand captured one of her breasts, the other holding the majority of his weight off her. He pulled his head back as the tip of his shaft grazed against her centre, meeting her eyes for final confirmation – she lifted her hips up to him in silent invitation and he slid into her.

Marion gasped as he filled her, setting already alight nerve endings into frantic response. She stared into his blue eyes, lifting her head to gently capture his bottom lip – and then sucked it firmly.

Something exploded in his belly at her touch and he thrust hard into her. She groaned and he pulled back, then thrust again – her hips bucked up to him and he moaned as he felt his whole length enclosed within her warmth. He returned his mouth to hers as he moved, she met him over and over again and their kiss lost its co-ordination; she arched herself further onto him, her little gasps of pleasure in his ear heightening his own sense of arousal. The gasps elevated into moans and he increased his speed – she gave a sharp cry and he exploded as he felt her convulse around and under him.

Marion held tightly to him as he shuddered above her, riding her own wave of pleasure down to a pulsing contentment. He collapsed onto her, breathing hard; she revelled in his weight, running her hands up and down his back, trying to soothe the bruises and cuts that she could feel.

"Do you mind if I stay here the night?" he murmured in her ear.

"You paid for the room," she reminded him lightly. She wouldn't come back to this motel; the desk clerk was far too smart, it had taken only a short shake of her head and his eyes had glazed over as if he didn't recognise her. "You can stay as long as you like."

"Will you stay for the night?" he moved his lips along the skin of her neck.

She sighed, stretching her neck to give him more access. "I have to get up early in the morning," she whispered.

"I'll wake you up," he promised, moving his lips to nibble at her ear.

She hesitated; having sex with him was one thing – _sleeping_ with him was another. He lifted his head above hers, his blue eyes meeting hers almost with some vulnerability and she couldn't help herself. She smiled at him, "perhaps if you shuffle a little to the right," she quipped slightly breathlessly.

He snuffed in amusement and lifted his weight off her, but leaned in to plant a languid kiss on her lips. He sighed as he lifted his head again, then extracted himself from inside her (she jumped a little at the sensation) and rolled over to _his _right. She frowned a little and thought about saying something – but wasn't sure how to phrase her habit of sleeping with her eye to the door. He rolled up into a sitting position and she allowed her hand to trace his back again, admiring the muscled shoulders and tapered waist but wincing at the shadows of the bruises and the cuts and grazes that had broken skin. He threw the remains of the condom into the bin and laid back down, pulling the sheet up over both of them. She shuffled over so that there was room and tucked her arm under her head, tracing her other hand over his chest where more bruises, cuts and grazes were evident, playing with the sprinkling of hair and then toying with the small but erect nipples. His hand came up and captured hers, pulling it to neutral territory in the middle of his chest and tucked the other under her head – a slight smile on his face and his eyes closed.

She smiled and dragged another pillow over, using it to pad her head up so that she wasn't leaning on his arm and closed her eyes.

"My name's Tim," he said quietly, his eyes still closed.

She smiled again. "Marion."

"Nice to meet you Marion," he managed as he fell asleep.

_And you too_ she thought.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

The gunfire was everywhere, Pete lay still now – his blood now seeping into the desert sands – but there were still the screams of the other soldiers, some in pain, others in fear. One officer was trying to get something approaching a plan in action but they were effectively pinned down, the insurgents were dug in behind the small walls of what used to be goat pens – there was no way they were going to be able to get at them – _except from that small hill 100 yards away_.

He looked around, seeing the desperation, the fear, the determination on the faces of the eight men still alive, the despair on the medic as he tried to hold the intestines of one young soldier inside his body. Then he looked at the blankness of Pete _how was he going to tell Jenny?_

He looked up at the hill again – from there he would be able to flank those walls, he'd be able to pick them off, well as long as he had enough ammunition. As long as he made it. He looked to the officer, Lieutenant Pride he remembered – fresh out of the academy, on his first tour. The lieutenant met his eyes, saw his intention and to his credit shook his head even though he knew it was their only hope because he could see it was as good as a suicide mission. But Tim just lifted his rifle, making sure a round was chambered and stared back with resolution and the lieutenant nodded. He yelled and order, the surviving soldiers lifted their weapons and sent a stream of fire over the earth – Tim jumped up and bolted. The bullets exploded about him – he felt a sharp pang in his side.

Tim started awake – disorientated by the blinking of a purple fluorescent light through the tiny highlight window, an obscure pattern of the yellow goldenrods tracked across the roof and into striped wallpaper. It was still night, maybe not by full definition but certainly by the darkness in the sky. Then the body next to him shifted again, pressing her breasts into him, shifting her upper thigh across his, clenching her hand onto his hip and murmuring something indistinguishable. Memory flooded in and he looked over at her face.

She was beautiful – even in purple fluorescent light. More so than he had been able to pick out in the bar. Her face was lean with classic high cheekbones, delicate button nose and full lips. He had pulled her chocolate brown hair out from its pony tail sometime during the night – it was spread across her back, several bits wisping around her ears which twinkled from a single diamond stud.

She hadn't needed his help, not really. He hadn't seen her take down the two thugs, but one minute he was copping a beating from two of them with the third on the way in and then the beating had halved, he had thrown off the remaining thug and stood – she'd been hardly breathing more heavily but one thug was lying motionless and the other was gasping and groaning while clutching at his throat. He'd quirked his eyebrow at her.

She had smiled slightly and shrugged. "Black belt."

"Perhaps you could have mentioned that earlier?" he'd suggested sardonically, wincing slightly as he touched a tender spot on his face.

"Did you ask?" her tone had been arch and he'd had to acknowledge the point. Everything about Bo and his cronies had offended him and blood had rushed to his head. "Are you damaged significantly?" she'd wanted to know, reaching to where he could feel blood oozing from his lip, her face not that far from his.

His lips had twisted and he stretched a little, testing what hurt and what didn't and how much those bits that hurt did. "I think I'm good."

It was her turn to snort. "Uh-huh. No beauty contest lined up for tomorrow then?"

"They banned me," he had returned with a glint in his eye. "The competition complained." She had laughed at that, her eyes lighting up and a real smile tugging at her lips – he found himself attracted even more. "I need a shoe," he reported, having completed an inventory of his person.

The missing article was found under Thug 1 and she had held an arm out for him to balance as he slipped it back on. He had stepped once and stumbled; the effects of the alcohol now more apparent that the burst of adrenalin was gone and she had pulled his arm over her shoulders, wrapping her own around his waist and taking a firm grasp of his belt. He had allowed her support without protest, although he kept the majority of his weight off her and directed her to a dark sedan.

Marion's eyes had narrowed as he'd pulled the keys out of his pocket. "Uh-uh I _don't_ think so," meeting his eyes evenly and apparently not at all worried about his best sniper's glare. "I'll get you a cab."

"I'm not that drunk," he had protested, putting the key toward the door.

She had snorted, snatching at them. But despite his condition he was still quick and his hand closed over them, putting them behind his back. "Bullshit. You're hammered," she had argued, stepping in closer to try and capture his hand – his blood had warmed beyond the alcohol effect as her breasts brushed against his chest.

"Abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz," he had rattled off quickly and she had stopped; her face very close to his. "Zyxwvutsrqponmlkjihgfedcba," he rattled off just as quickly and with more than a hint of triumph.

Her eyes had lit with amusement. "Just because you have memorised the alphabet in reverse order does not make you sober." He had watched as she looked up and down the street, finding it empty except a few isolated cars, then met his eyes over a disturbing absence of centimetres. "Um," she had swallowed, stepping back and tried again. "There doesn't look to be many cabs around." She had sighed, then held out her hand. "Give me the keys," she instructed.

"You're drunk," he had retorted playfully.

Her eyes had flashed with indignation and she had placed her hands on her hips, apparently unaware of how the action accentuated her bust. "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood? A woodchuck would chuck so much wood he wouldn't know how much wood he chucked!" she had snapped.

"She sells seashells by the seashore. The shells she sells are surely seashells. So if she sells shells on the seashore, I'm sure she sells Seashore shells," he had returned in a voice of appreciation.

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. A peck of pickled peppers Peter picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?" she had challenged.

"Eighteen," he had replied.

She had laughed out loud and he hadn't been able to help himself. He had leant in and kissed her; for a moment she had been still, as if shocked, but before he could retreat she had pushed up into him and thrown her arms around his neck. He had reached his hand up to the back of her head, burying it amongst her hair and pulling her closer into him. The wave of desire had all but taken his breath away, he moved his hand up along her side, extending a thumb over the curve of her breast.

She'd pulled away and he thought for one horrible second that he'd overstepped a line. "Not here," she'd whispered and he'd turned to see that three of the four shapes on the ground were moving. "There," she'd nodded to where a purple neon light flashed a few blocks away. He'd let her drive – _it had been an interesting experience _but there hadn't been enough cars on the road to correct her.

Suddenly her face contorted slightly at the same time that her hand clenched again and he frowned slightly. Carefully he moved the arm underneath her so that it wrapped further around her, resting on her waist and moved his other hand to enclose hers against his hip. She gave a sigh and her face relaxed again, her body softening against him and he smiled. _She was beautiful _he thought again, lulled back to sleep by her breathing and warmth pressed against him.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

So? Reviews are not _necessary_ as such but they add fuel to the fire that will keep me writing this story, because I haven't finished it yet. Tim's military history is not mine – I borrowed from the universe as described by freshouttaideas.


	2. Chapter 2

Thankyou for the reviews! There is a little bit more of Marion to explore yet (pun only partially intended) – which we will do here before we move the story along.

Chapter 2

The noise of a car backfiring shot through the relative silence and his eyes snapped open, taking in the pertinent facts quickly. It was light, but only just (a little after 5am if his interpretation of the shadows was correct) and he was alone. _Fuck_ he thought, sighing and quelling the disappointment at not even seeing her in daylight let alone getting her number and rolled up into a sitting position, levering his feet to the floor. "Fuck," he swore as his body complained at the beating he had allowed it to get. Then his eyes registered that none of his clothes were on the floor and he groaned, falling back onto the bed. _Raylan was going to love this._

After hearing her voice he had found his eyes kept on turning to her reflection and he had watched her with interest when she'd pulled herself out of the booth to make a trip to the restroom. She was relatively tall for a woman, equal to his height even; she was slim but with curves in the right places and she'd moved like an athlete, soft footed and balanced. He'd been turned on. So he'd kept an eye on her when she returned, secure in the dimness of the bar that his scrutiny would go unnoticed, watched her sitting back and stretching out those legs to the seat on the other side of the table. He had wondered what she'd say if he went over there and asked to sit.

"Another one please Walt," he'd said, his voice sounding loud in the sudden silence between performances, to distract himself from the sudden allure of that option.

"Are you sure you should?" Walt had asked with some concern.

Tim hadn't blamed Walt, he knew that the bartender had some sort of rough affection for the quiet, well spoken man who sat on the end of his bar and drank all by himself most nights of the week without ever once confiding in him as others were prone to do. But there were only two things that were going to get him to sleep tonight and he was too picky to take what was on blatant offer and too reluctant to attempt to find an alternative – so alcohol it had to be. He had looked at Walt, his gaze a shadow of his sniper's glare but all that was needed.

Walt had poured his drink, leaving the bottle next to the glass at just a touch from him. He'd looked up into the mirror just as the stage flashed a light on the audience and their eyes had met. Hers were brown, and framed by long dark eyelashes, free from any suggestion of makeup. They had widened momentarily as they had met his but then she had offered him a polite smile and he thought that it had been a coincidence – that she hadn't just caught him watching her. She took a sip from her drink as if nothing had happened but in a short time her bottle was empty and she was standing. Then she had been intercepted and he had felt it necessary to intervene – of course if only he had known then what he knew now. _He'd even fell for the jibe at the accent_ he winced and wondered if he had been specifically targeted – and if so _why_.

He pulled himself back up into a seated position and gingerly pushed himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom. He examined his face and winced – there was already a purple mark forming around one eye and although he could will it open, it wanted to be half closed and his bottom lip was split. His chest was worse, having been the recipient of several boots as well as a number of punches. He lifted his arm and examined the pattern left by the metal rings, testing his fingers by wiggling them. Everything still worked _so that was something_. He reached over and turned on the water, pleasantly surprised that hot water started running almost immediately and stepped under it, hissing as the water hit the open wounds on his back. He tore open the packet of cheap body wash and lathered himself up, sparing some to run through his hair and then drenched his face under the spray, holding still for a good couple of minutes to let the water do its work.

He turned the water off and rubbed himself vigorously with one of the small, lintless towels, dropping it when drenched and using the other to wrap around his waist. He wondered whether the desk clerk would take a half naked man seriously and ring the Marshal Service as requested rather than the police. He wondered whether he really wanted to ring Rachel, Raylan or even Art. He stepped out of the bathroom and froze – staring in disbelief at his gun on the floor.

_What type of scam would leave a loaded handgun on the floor?_ he wondered, bending down to pick it up and confirming that it was in fact still loaded and apparently untouched. _A smart one that didn't want to get into a world of trouble_ he answered himself and then his lips quirked. _They were going to have a coronary when they looked in his jacket pocket then._

A noise at the door attracted his attention and he stepped quickly to the side, holding the gun ready at his shoulder. The knob jiggled again and the door wobbled; he frowned wondering what was going on – had they come back? Realised the shit they were in and trying to get back in to return his stuff? The door suddenly released and he grabbed the figure that stepped in, yanking it into him and pointing his gun at the open doorway.

Marion dropped the bundle of clothes and closed her hands over the well built arm, tensing and ready to throw – then her eyes caught up and she took in the crumpled and empty bed, the still steaming bathroom and the sensation of towelling behind her legs. "Tim?" she demanded, trying to turn her head.

"Expecting someone else?" he growled into her ear and she felt the cold steel of a barrel pressed against her ear. "Or did you decide to come back for it after all?"

She'd been unnerved by the eye contact over the width of the bar. Picking up strays, even if he wasn't a cop, for some casual sex really hadn't been on her to do list that night. Not _before_. So she had finished her drink, giving in to the cautious internal voice that told her to get out of there before her hormones took over, but the redneck had put an end to that plan. He'd been big, not overly tall, but wide – a barrel of a man with thick arms _built like a brick shithouse_ had come to mind; the stereotypical arsehole; bald head, stubbly cheeks, leather vest, studded wrist cuff, biker boots and leering grin _although he did have nice eyes_. He was the dictionary's graphical definition for redneck racist, sexist prick.

"Hey there sugartits," he had said as he leant a large paw onto her table. "Hows bout ya 'ave a drink with ol' Bo?"

She had eyed him consideringly, trying to assess exactly how drunk he was and how much she was going to have to hurt him because there was just no such thing as a fair fight with a bloke his size. She glanced at the three thugs who were standing in a loose formation behind Bo – they were large, sporting tattoos that spoke volumes of general intolerance, with various stages of crew cut and oozing anger management issues. She heaved a sigh and stood, observing with dry amusement that he was slightly startled by her height even when he straightened. "Well as appealing as the thought is," she had said calmly "I am afraid I shall have to decline."

"Ah – ya can't do that sweetcheeks," he protested good naturedly, "I've been watchin' ya all night".

"I believe I can," her voice had cooled due to anger, at herself for not noticing his scrutiny as much as him for being an arsehole, and she had stepped around him.

For a big man he moved quickly and he had blocked her way. His leer changed to a frown, not yet over the rejection (which she doubted he had even heard) but in puzzlement. "Ya speak funny," he stated. "Ya a yankee bitch?"

_His _lips had twisted somewhat at that: she was somewhat discomforted with the fact that he was paying attention to her _and that you are even watching him at a time like this – focus Marion focus!_ Again Marion had acknowledged the rightness of that voice and resolved to end this quickly. Attention was something she didn't need.

She had offered a slight smile to man. "Not quite, I _am_ a tourist though which explains our language discrepancies. I said no." She had dropped an extra note onto the table with a glance at the waitress, "you enjoy your evening."

The waitress, trained very early in the art of self preservation and violence avoidance, had caught the concept and held out a beer to the man from the order in her tray. "Here Bo."

"Thanks sugar," he had said, reducing the slur in apparent appreciation of her largesse. _And really with the notes all being the same blood colour goodness knows how much she just threw away_. "So what ya doin' here?"

"Just enjoying the music, having something to eat," she had replied, willing to give him another thirty five seconds if it could be ended peacefully.

"Horseshit to that," he had snorted. "Ya some type of cop?" he had demanded suspiciously, looking at her clothes.

Marion had snorted _if only he knew!_ but struggled to think of something that would explain her presence. "I _was_ waiting for someone to join me; it seems that won't be happening tonight." She had known it was the wrong thing to say as soon as it was out of her mouth.

"Well hell sugartits," he had exclaimed. "That prick has stood ya up? Bo will make ya forget all about 'im!" He had reached forward and dragged her close to him.

She yanked at his arm, spinning out from under it to glare at him – Tim let her go but lifted the gun to her face. Her eyes narrowed and she put her hands on her hips. "And I was going to apologise for the smell of the detergent!"

Tim frowned at her reaction, or _lack_ of reaction; there _was_ a suggestion of a cloying floral smell in the room now, and he glanced down at the ground. He saw his clothes – amongst hers, looking like they had previously been neatly folded but now in a crumpled pile from where she had dropped them. He looked up, starting at her hiking boots without socks, up her bare legs, _all the way up her bare legs_ to the hem of his jacket which hung a little loosely off her. He lowered the gun. "You washed my clothes?"

"And dried them," she snapped. "I wasn't sure that you really wanted to take the smell of that place into wherever it is you worked," she continued in a slightly uncertain voice. "Although," her voice sharpened again and she gave a pointed glance at the gun. "Perhaps I needn't have bothered?"

"And my wallet?" he queried.

She took the three steps over to the bed and yanked open the bedside table, his wallet and phone moved within it. "I did take some shrapnel out of your pants pockets," she said. "The machines didn't take notes."

He reached over, pulling the key from the lock and closed the door. "Sorry," he apologised, placing his gun on the tiny table.

She frowned at him for a few moments. "You thought I had worked you over?" she said slowly. Her eyes widened. "You thought last night was a setup!"

He winced slightly at the tone of accusation. "Sounds funny doesn't it," he tried.

"No it does _not_," she snapped. "I am not a whore."

His eyes lit with some amusement that that was the component of the issue that she latched on. He bent over and picked up the pile of clothes, walking over to her and leaning in as he pushed them against her. She held herself stiffly. "That's good – because I don't know that I could have afforded a night like _that_," and he captured her mouth with his.

Marion felt her irritation dissipate under his lips, a whole different reaction igniting in her belly, but she pulled away, snatching the clothes from him and turning to the bench against the wall. "Hmph," she snorted.

She had woken at dawn as was normal for her, but the arm around her back, the fingertips on top of her other hand and the firm body entwined with hers had not been normal. She had kept her breathing deep and even, her eyes closed, assessing the environment around her. There was a hand attached the to arm, fingers were light against the small of her back, her hand was curled around a defined pectoral muscle. There was some minor road noise and breathing in line with the movements under her hand only – no-one else was in the room. Memory came back _bloody hell_ she had thought and had opened her eyes slowly. _Her hero_. His face had been tipped towards her a little; he had almost a boyish face when at peace although it was marred by the marks that Bo et al had inflicted on him and the sun had brought out the touch of ginger in his hair that she hadn't noticed during the night. He smelt of an interesting combination of bourbon/whiskey (she never could be sure which was which), blood and the sweat of a man who had exerted himself – it was not at all off-putting and something within her responded. _Down girl, down_.

"I believe the lady indicated that she would like to go now," he'd said in a quiet voice that somehow still managed to penetrate through the noise of the room. It had distracted both her and Bo and they had both turned to look at him; remarkably steady for a man that had consumed that amount of alcohol, feet spread apart just enough to keep him balanced, neither leaning left or right, forward or backwards. To the casual observer he had looked relaxed, but she had seen the tenseness in his frame, how his muscles were braced. His hands were loose near his waist and she had frowned _she hadn't seen any evidence that he was carrying when he came in_. She had ignored the acerbic internal voice that had suggested that was because she had been too busy perving on his arse to pay proper attention and had opened her mouth to assure him that she was able to take care of Bo and his mates by herself.

However Bo's response had overtaken her opportunity and there simply had not been an opening _in the pissing contest _before she found herself being pulled towards the door for the issue to be sorted. Bo _was_ carrying – a big arse knife on the edge of his hip – but it was that hand that was holding her arm so she allowed him to think he was in control and followed him outside, shivering involuntarily as the night air hit her arms. _His_ eyes had flicked to her; _bugger noticed everything _she had thought somewhat balefully before a sudden movement made her mouth open to shout a warning.

_He_ hadn't needed it. He had sidestepped the blow that came from the side of him, whirling and planting a solid set of punches that cracked into the thug's kidney and dropped him to his knees with a cry. He had stepped back as Thug 2 advanced on him, ducking the roundhouse fist that hammered towards him and letting loose with another two quick blows to Thug 2's belly – taking the wind from him. Thug 3 had paused a moment and then stepped in, a flash of metal on his knuckles gleaming and catching Marion's attention. _He_ saw it as well, but was effectively hemmed in by the bodies of the other two and so closed his arms around his head. The blow from the knuckle dusters was a sickening thud and Marion winced – but he dropped his arms immediately and let loose with a couple of quick blows, one which caught Thug 3 under the chin and he dropped like a stone.

Thug 1 had roared out a curse and launched from his knees into the slighter man, taking him down to the ground where he let loose with several blows that thumped savagely into the _his_ ribs. Thug 2 had stepped forward, still gasping but able to let loose with savage kicks to the man on the ground. That was when she decided enough was enough.

Tim wasn't convinced that she actually was pissed, but he turned away to let his body breathe and lay back down on the bed, propping his head up on his arms and watching as she dumped the clothes in a pile on the bench.

"You have a gun," she said baldly after a brief struggle with herself.

"I do," he accepted.

"Why?" she met his eyes in the mirror.

"You don't know?" he queried instead.

"I didn't look in your wallet," she replied truthfully, her lips twisting slightly as she added, "just stole the coins in your pocket."

"I'm a Marshal," he said. "Federal police," he added in case she wasn't familiar with the title.

"Like Tommy Lee Jones?" she sought clarification.

"If you want," his mouth twitched. "Just without the hat." _That was Raylan_.

Her own lips twitched but she dropped her eyes, chewing on her lip as she refolded the clothes, hanging his shirt over a chair and laying his jeans along the bench. She bent over slightly and he tipped his head to the side, catching a glimpse of red lace. He _had _been drunk the night before but he had no recollection of _those_ – he actually thought that he'd removed some fairly utilitarian underwear from her.

"Laundrette busy at this time of the morning?" he enquired, tracing the slight curve of her buttock with his eyes.

"No," she said still slightly sourly. "I had it all to myself."

"I would have thought that there'd be a crowd," he tried again.

She shrugged, still facing away from him although there couldn't be that many clothes still needing to be folded. "A little bit too early I suppose – I can't imagine that the residents in this area are early risers."

"I'm jealous of my jacket."

_That_ got him a reaction and she turned, a smile teasing at her lips. But she hesitated.

"Is it that much of a problem?" he asked quietly.

She stilled again. _Yes of course it fucking is – it would have been safer if you'd been a cop. He's got nothing on you_ reassured the cautious voice, contrarily now entirely flipped over on the whole issue. She'd never been one for regret. "No," she replied with a sigh. "It's certainly better than some of the alternatives. It was just a surprise," she shrugged. "I wouldn't have thought a clean cut lawman would have associated with the riffraff in a place like that."

"I just drink there," he assured her, slightly huskily – her shrug had picked his jacket up a little and the hint of red lace had started his body simmering. "I don't associate with the riff raff."

Her body reacted to the tone in his voice and she looked him up and down, the bruises even more apparent in the daylight but not distracting from the tone of his chest and stomach. _Down girl – he's damaged_ said an internal voice. _I'll be gentle_ she promised and took a step forward, reaching up to the zipper she had pulled to the very top. "Really?" she said softly. "So riff raff isn't your style?"

He allowed her the dodge because she was sauntering over to him, twisting her legs so that her hips moved provocatively, and her hand was slowly pulling the zipper down and exposing flesh. The simmering started to boil.

Marion lifted one leg up high and laid it on the other side of his hip on the bed, licking her lip as she saw his gaze follow the movement; his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed and she saw his arm muscles flex as he clenched his hands. She gave him a slight smile and sat down on top of him, the hardening bulge under the towel directly on her centre sending an almost electric response burning through her. His arm muscles clenched again. The zip reached the bottom and she laid her hands on the bed, walking them forward until they were under his arms, her body reacting more to the heat in his gaze as he moved his arms and pulled apart the jacket to see her naked torso and red lacy panties.

He groaned as she placed her lips against his, moving his hands up and over her breasts, feeling them fill his hand and stroking at the soft curves and the buds which immediately thrust themselves out. She moved her head, tracing down his jawline and to his ear lobe. "These are new," he whispered as he traced the top of the panties.

She shrugged, which did wonderful things to the parts of her bust still in his hand. "They were in the dryer," she lied; riff raff she might be but wearing someone else's or yesterday's underwear was just not on. These were the sexiest pair she could find amongst the half briefs that otherwise filled her suitcase. Of course she had put them on before she had found his warrant card. _Should have just kept on going of course, but leaving a naked marshal alone in a motel room without his id wasn't the best way to make sure the encounter was forgotten. _"Figured I might get hit by a bus between the laundrette and here and should have clean undies on."

He chuckled, taking a deep breath as her lips found his nipple and her hands traced down his chest, moving one of his own hands to trace the rest of the outline of the red lace.

"I'm afraid that I was never a boy scout," he confessed with some difficulty after several minutes.

Marion pulled her face back to look at him with a puzzled frown evident.

He smiled and lifted up to gently kiss her lips. "I'm not always prepared," he explained.

Her face softened into a grin. "Well you see – you had such a lot of shrapnel in your pockets and there's another machine there that's not used for washing or drying."

His eyes widened.

"I might have given it far too much, what with your bloody dimes and quarters and such, but it did give me something," she continued.

"Did it just?" he grinned and pulled her head back down to his.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

The TLJ and the hat reference is of course to 'The Fugitive'. I may have allowed some TWD fangirling to escape my fingers – it won't happen again!


	3. Chapter 3

Thankyou for all your kind words! If I could request my guest please leave me a name to work with so I can link your comments throughout the story? Just overtype 'guest' when you review.

Chapter 3

Raylan gave a slow whistle, easing himself in through the door, closing it and leaning against it. "So what's the other guy look like?"

Tim winced, dropping his second shirt into the bottom of his locker with the other and picking up one of the folded ones from the shelf. It was before eight so personnel had been thin on the ground but Rachel had been there – she always was the first in, and somewhat to his surprise so was Raylan _must have had an argument with Wynona. _He had known that it wouldn't escape Rachel's attention that he was wearing the same clothes from the day before and even Raylan wouldn't miss the black eye so he had expected this conversation. He had been hoping that it could have waited until he had finished changing his shirts though – he hadn't been as worried as Marion that the blood stains hadn't come out of his undershirt but the floral washing liquid had already started to give him a headache. _Or it could be the multiple blows to the head. _

"They look a bit better," he admitted. They of course had been gone when he had returned to his car after putting her safely in a taxi back to her motel – but while he was confident that he, and Marion, had landed some blows he knew that he hadn't lavished the same amount of punishment on them as he had received.

"They?" Raylan's brows rose. "How many?"

He figured he couldn't count Bo. "Three," he groaned as he pulled the shirt over his head, thankful at least that Raylan didn't try and help him.

"Why?" was the next question.

Tim changed his mind about shrugging, pulling a new shirt off a hanger. "Wrong place at the wrong time." It didn't wash – Raylan knew that he went to pains to extract himself from those sorts of situations – as a man with his training and capabilities should do. "There might have been a woman involved."

He could hear the grin stretching over Raylan's face. "Really?"

A knock on the door saved Tim from answering. "Raylan – Tim!" came Rachel's urgent whisper.

The other door burst open and Art Mullen walked in; Tim reluctantly turned to face him as he finished buttoning his shirt; Art's eyes narrowing at the sight of Tim's face. "You can come in Deputy Brooks – he's decent," he called out dryly.

Raylan pushed off the door and pulled it open – Tim smiled at the diminutive woman as she walked in, looking in some concern at him.

"First things first," started Art. "Are you fit for work?"

Tim pulled his jacket on, momentarily disconcerted by the slight scent of violets that came with it, and nodded. "I shoot with the other eye."

"That's not all you do here you know," retorted Art waspishly, glancing at Raylan. "Although it does appear that way sometimes."

"Hey," Raylan protested mildly.

"I'll be fine as long as I don't have to wrestle with anymore 240 pound rednecks," Tim assured him.

"Hmm," Art considered him balefully, although Raylan's brows went up and his eyes promised that there would be a conversation to be held on that topic at the earliest opportunity. Tim hoped that he'd be paired with Rachel for the day – she'd eventually get the story from him but she wouldn't be so bullish about it. "While I wouldn't want to commit to that for the entire day, you're safe for this morning – come in here," Art ordered.

Art dropped a pair of photos onto the boardroom table; Raylan leaned forward to pick them up, grimacing slightly and showing both Tim and Rachel the obviously dead men, faces disfigured.

"Do we know them?" asked Raylan, looking at them as if trying to recognise them. "I mean – did we know them?"

"Not personally," replied Art and dropped a couple of files on the desk. "But our colleagues in the FBI did – Mario and Paul Bernatonio, low level hit men for a syndicate in New York."

"Winston?" Tim made the connection immediately, reaching over to pick up one of the files.

"That's why we were flagged into it," nodded Art.

"It?" repeated Rachel, looking over the other file with Raylan looking over her shoulder. "What exactly is it?"

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"Car meets cow," was the local sheriff's answer a couple of hours later when Raylan asked the question. "We've called it a draw."

"I think that's a bull," remarked Tim with a look at the remains of the large creature at the side of the road. He had lucked out – Art had sent Rachel down to check on Winston and he'd had to drive to an area outside of Huntington with Raylan. He'd managed to limit the description of the evening to the fight – confirming that he had spent the night with a woman but refusing to give the gory details and pretending to fall asleep – which hadn't been that much of a pretend in the end. Raylan had not been happy with the lack of information and Tim had been wondering how he was going to get all the way back to Lexington with divulging more than he was really comfortable with.

Sheriff Rollins had been trying to avoid looking at him since he arrived _must be something offputting about a marshal that looks like he's been in a bar room brawl _but at his comment he allowed himself to look over curiously. "Cow – bull, what's the difference?"

Raylan sent him a pleading look and Tim swallowed the retort which pointed out the blinding obvious, "maybe a couple of thousand dollars in an insurance claim," he said instead. He hid a smirk as he saw the sheriff, a simple man with his roots in the county, curse and start to flick back in his book to make sure he used the correct word. "Anything funny about the accident?"

"Funny as in hah-hah or as in henky?" returned Rollins acidly. He snorted a bit at the look he got from both marshals. "Not that we can see – one of the locals came up on it, she said she'd been overtaken by two cars, going real fast, a couple of miles up the road. I'd say they've come around the bend and seen the co... bull. Put on the brakes but didn't stop in time."

"Tyres?" suggested Raylan and Tim bent to look at them, examining for any signs of bullet holes.

Rollins responded, missing the quick shake of Tim's head. "All the tyres look good, there're skid marks there that look like the brakes worked – for a short distance anyway. They just weren't wearing seatbelts and momentum's a bitch."

"Car?"

"Hire car," the sheriff reported the obvious. "Checking where from now."

"Why was the big fella out?" Raylan nodded at the dead bull.

Tim moved on from the fuel tank – no hole in there either – and poked his head in through the shattered side window, examining the remains of hamburger and hot chip containers and the couple of V cans in the front footwell. There was nothing in the rear of the car. He reached into his pocket and encased his hand with a handkerchief, turning the key one notch so that the display showed and he could see the trip meter.

"Ed Walsh owns both sides of the road," replied the sheriff, his tone indicating his confusion with the question. "Only just been moved his herd the day before. Apparently the bull didn't like his new pasture and was returning – has a history of it." He frowned. "You think it might have been deliberate?"

"Doesn't look like it," acknowledged Raylan. "Just want to be sure."

"I've known Ed for thirty odd years," vouched Rollins and Raylan nodded in acceptance that the issue was closed.

"Weapons in the car?" continued Raylan as Tim wandered to the impact zone, apparent from the skid and blood marks.

"They were both carrying handguns – there were a couple of shotguns in the trunk. Won't do us any good – the serial numbers have been rubbed off." The sheriff looked at them curiously. "Ya'all going to tell me why the US Marshal Service is even interested?"

"Just a little flag popped up," shrugged Raylan casually.

"Little flag," snorted Rollins. "Two deputies show up less than four hours since I called it in – I'd say a might big flag popped up."

Raylan gave his best wide eyed innocent look. The sheriff snorted again.

"What about the other car?" asked Tim suddenly.

The sheriff looked at him and shook his head. "There was no other car involved."

"You said your witness reported being overtaken by _two_ cars shortly before the accident," Tim reminded.

Rollins shook his head. "Maggie didn't say she saw see any other car when she got here."

"They killed on impact?" Raylan picked up, realising where Tim was going.

"The victims?" Rollins shrugged with a type of fatalism only those inured to the horrors of traffic accidents could be. "Bit hard to tell – they were smashed up pretty good."

"How long until Maggie came around the corner?"

"Couple of minutes maybe," shrugged the sheriff. "They went past her like she was standing still."

_Long enough _Tim concurred as his eyes met Raylan's _aw hell_.

"How soon til your coroner has finished?" asked Raylan.

"Well we don't get much call for this type of work," drawled Rollins slowly. "Old Lloyd was what some would call unseemly excited when he got the call up. I can check what he's got now if you want?" he offered.

"Would you," Raylan gave him a wide smile and a tip of his hat.

The sheriff snorted again and dug his phone out of his pocket, walking away.

"So – what do you reckon?" Raylan said quietly.

"Looks clear cut enough,' nodded Tim. "Picture perfect scenario for why you should wear seat belts."

"And the other car?"

Tim shrugged. "Maybe just hotheads feeding off each other? Maybe associates." He looked around the ground. "There's only the one set of skids here." As one they looked up to the other side of the bull and started walking. Sure enough about a 100yards up the road was another set of, longer, skid marks.

"Still could just be hotheads," cautioned Raylan. "Pulled up but ran rather than risk getting into trouble."

Tim gave him a doubtful glance. "They filled up in Huntington – they'd get to Redbud on what they had left in the tank." He was already pulling out his phone.

"Deputies?"

They both turned as Sheriff Rollins jogged up to them.

"Your men – they died from blunt force trauma."

Both Tim and Raylan relaxed slightly.

"To the eye," he continued, his face grim as they looked at him. "Lloyd can't be sure, he's going to have to do more checking but he thinks they've both been stabbed through the eye."

Tim started dialling as he jogged, leaving Raylan to do the niceties with the sheriff and leave his card.

"What's up Tim?" Rachel's voice came over clear, her tone crisp and precise as he reached the car.

"We may have a situation here," he replied. "How's Winston?" He looked up as Raylan opened the door and flicked the phone to speaker.

"A little un-nerved," she replied. "I had a conversation with him about the use of the internet."

"And?" that was Raylan, sliding his length behind the steering wheel.

"He assured me that he hadn't been anywhere beyond the cable television's on-line tv guide."

"You believe him?" asked Tim.

"No," she said dryly. "However after fifteen minutes of listening to the intricacies of algorithms and encryptions I _do_ believe that he is confident that he did not give away his location."

"We have two in the wind Rachel," Tim reported. "They killed their partners when they became a liability."

"What have they got?" she demanded.

"Unknown – but the brothers Bernatonio were armed for short distance work," replied Tim.

"So the partners could be the long distance team?" she interpreted.

"Or they could just be the actual kill squad – the Bernatonios could have just been there for extra muscle," Raylan cautioned her against making assumptions.

"We got anything on them?" she asked.

"Locals are going to try and get an id on the car," said Raylan. "Other than that – nothing. Could only be one, could be four – might all be just a coincidence."

Rachel gave an unladylike snort – Tim had to agree. Co-incidence of this sort of nature was just not likely – it was all too neat.

"We're going to report to Art – we'll let you know what's going on," said Tim. "Lock it down in the meantime."

Rachel ended up hearing what was going on earlier than anticipated – Art took Tim's call on his landline and then rang Rachel on his mobile, all phone (except Rachel's) were put on speaker and they held a conference call. Art listened to the reports from both Rachel and Tim, with Raylan intervening occasionally, and there was almost a minute of silence as he thought.

"Raylan – bring Tim back here, then you head to support Rachel," he decided finally. Tim's mouth opened in protest – Art apparently could see through telephone lines. "One look at your face Deputy Gutterson and Winston will revoke his testimony. He's shaky enough as it is – I don't want to spook him anymore than necessary and I need one of you back here. How far are you off?"

"We can make it in three quarters of an hour," replied Raylan.

"Well back it off a warp speed and make it an hour," advised Art – something Tim was thankful for. "See you then."

Tim disconnected the line, gritting his teeth at the forced inaction. He knew though that Art was correct – Winston had been scared into testifying by the threats on his life, but the realities of a life away from everything he had ever known had been threatening to overwhelm him. And his face just wasn't good for the types of reassurances a Marshal would be required to give – it was best if he left that to Rachel and Raylan, both of them more than capable of looking after a witness. _But long range was his field_ protested something inside of him.

"It'll be alright," Raylan seemed to read his mind. "We'll lock him up and you can find 'em. At least," he said cheekily after a pause, "you might be able to meet up with that lady friend of yours again."

_As if_ Tim thought, although the thought was strangely appealing.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

The step on the floorboards made Mags Bennett look up with a frown – the step was too light for any of her boys, but she hadn't heard a car come in; it was another three seconds before the figure made her way through the door. The woman was polar opposite of Mags herself – tall and lithe, dressed in a tight fitting shirt and only a slightly looser fitting set of shorts that showed her figure to an advantage. Her chocolate brown hair was tied back in a low ponytail and she carried a long haversack one shoulder. Her face turned and Mags was struck by the beauty of the woman.

"Mrs Bennett?" smiled the woman, taking a couple of steps towards the counter. "You're a hard woman to find."

Mags' eyes narrowed a little further and she dropped her hand below the counter to where her handgun was situated, blinking slightly as the woman's eyes noted the movement and seemed to laugh at her. "That's me – but I ain't buying honey."

The woman laughed. "Well that's good – because I'm not selling."

Mags frowned, trying to place the accent. It was precise – someone who'd been brought up to mind her 'p's and 'q's but it had a different twang. "Where you from honey?"

"Toronto," replied the woman, putting the bag on the ground against the wall and Mags relaxed her grip on the gun a little. "But you're hearing the Australian."

"Pike River outsourcing now?" queried Mags with an edge, totally confused but latching on to the only explanation that made any sense.

"Who?" the woman looked away from the items she was inspecting on the shelf. "Oh the mining company? No – I mean I understand that our way of life needs coal, oil and minerals, but at some stage someone will have to figure out that the ever increasing use of a finite use of natural resources is not going to end well – aren't they?"

Mags' eyes narrowed, her hand tightening on the gun again. "So why you looking for me then Miss...?"

"Marion," the woman replied, picking up a chocolate bar. "Marion Arnold."

"Should I know you?" asked Mags, hearing a suggestion of something in Marion's voice.

Marion shook her head, a strange smile on her face. "No. No I don't think you have ever had occasion to."

"So why you looking for me then Miss Arnold?" Mags asked point blank.

"I'm here to do a job," replied Marion, inspecting the lollies under the counter. "I was advised that you may have an interest – so I came to have a chat with you – ensure that there were no misunderstandings."

"You opening up another store?" scoffed Mags. "Cause that's my only interest in this holler."

Marion lifted her eyes from the counter – the woman was deceptively tall, her bulk and baggy clothes hiding her height, but Marion stood just a little taller. Her eyes were keen and there was a lot of knowing behind them, so Marion took all sense of pretence out of hers and saw a flash of recognition – not for _who_ she was, but for _what_ she was. Her voice was cool when she continued. "Please Mrs Bennett, we're both big girls here."

Mags lifted the gun up out from under the counter. "You can be leaving now Miss Arnold."

Marion took a glance at the gun pointed at her middle and sighed, looking back up at Mags. Without blinking she struck out, catching the barrel of the gun with the flat of her hand. The bullet burnt a path through the heel of her hand, the noise of the gun exploded in her ear and she gritted her teeth against the pain, yanking the gun out of Mags' hand and turning it so the barrel pointed at the woman's head.

Mags stared at the barrel of her gun, held unwaveringly at a spot between her eyes – stunned by the speed of the episode.

"Now," Marion lowered the gun slowly, grabbing the barrel with the palm of her right hand and popping out the bullet in the chamber and then dropping the magazine to the ground. She kicked that to her left and then carefully rubbed the weapon's handle and barrel against her t-shirt, leaving a blood stain on the fabric before Mags' fascinated gaze. Marion deliberately placed the cleaned gun back on the counter between them and leaned in slightly to meet the other woman's face. "Perhaps we can try that again?"

"I believe we should Miss Arnold, because I think I may have got you all wrong," Mags said slowly.

"Hmm," commented Marion, glancing at the red raw groove in her hand which was welling up blood at an accelerating rate. "Perhaps you have something for this while we talk?"

Mags nodded and came around from behind the corner, heading to the shelves. There was a sound of thundering footsteps behind her and she turned.

"Mama!"

Marion blinked as a man mountain came in the door, followed by his exact physical opposite. Both of them held guns and she stayed very still, although her right hand moved behind her back to where her gun was situated.

"Now it's alright," soothed Mags. "Just a simple misunderstanding between myself and Miss Arnold."

Both men turned to look at Marion, narrowing their eyes at her. She gave them a smile.

"Off you go," instructed the woman. "Everything's just fine."

"Are you sure Mama?" asked the larger of the two – Coover, Marion decided – which would make the other one Dickie. Coover was looking at her dubiously – Dickie was looking at her with a suggestion of admiration.

"Of course I'm sure you dimwit," snapped Mags and Marion's brows rose internally – she kept her face expressionless on the outside. "Now go – Mama has business to attend to."

Reluctantly the two turned, giving Marion another look and a finger tip to Dickie's hat as they walked out the door. She let her breath go and moved her hand.

"Sorry about that – hardly half a brain to rub between them," explained Mags.

"No need to apologise for sons wanting to protect their mother," replied Marion with an edge. She regretted it as the woman looked at her sharply and shrugged casually. "They love you."

"They're good boys," Mags relaxed and smiled fondly. "Now this is going to sting a bit."

It stung more than a bit, but Marion gritted her teeth as the woman dabbed peroxide onto the wound, then placed a cotton pad and gauze over it, before wrapping it securely – glancing once at Marion before making sure that it was such that she could still use her fingers and thumb.

"Now," Mags perched up on a stool. "How can I help you Miss Arnold?"

"No help needed Mrs Bennett," Marion shook her head, moving her thumb and fingers in the bandage to test her movement and nodding once in satisfaction. "I just wanted to make sure I wasn't stepping on your toes."

"Unless you're here to grow weed, and I don't reckon you are, then I can't see what toes you'll be stepping on." Mags spoke frankly.

"I understand," Marion said slowly, "that you have an arrangement with a Mr Boyd Crowder?"

Mags' chin lifted. "I do. He did me a favour, helped me set up my boys' future."

"And would you say you would feel it necessary to intervene if someone was to say," Marion paused while she considered the perfect word, "_disrupt_ Mr Crowder's peaceful way of existence?"

"I can't say that I would," replied Mags slowly. "I wouldn't feel right letting the man himself be hurt though. He is from Harlan after all."

Marion smiled slightly at the woman's sense of morality. It was fine to try and kill the man herself – but no-one else was allowed to do it. "I can assure you that there is no intention for anything like that," she said. "Of course, sometimes there are accidents, misunderstandings," her gaze flicked to her hand.

Mags nodded, "there are at that."

There was a buzzing sound and Marion grimaced, reaching into her shorts' pocket and extracting a phone. She glanced at it for a moment, "excuse me for a moment will you please Mrs Bennett," and waited until she received a nod before touching the phone and placing it to her ear.

"This is Marion," letting the caller know that she was within ear shot of someone.

_The account is still under negotiation_ said the voice on the other line. _Are you in position?_

"Almost," replied Marion. "Just clearing the field as we speak."

_Good – but the parameters have changed. There was competition._

"Who?" she demanded. "Was?"

_Bernatonio. They're dead – car accident._

Marion snorted. "Please – they are a whole different paygrade to me and you know it."

_Of course I do my dear – the brothers couldn't find Niagara Falls for the mist. However they were known and their death has caused some waves amongst our federal friends. The target zone will now be crowded._

_Crap _she swore internally, her eyes closing briefly as the full import of what that meant sunk in.

_They were of course the muscle, the lead to the local contact, there purely to support the others._

"Who?" she demanded – her feelings on the subject slammed back into the box.

_Unknown. The file has been sent to Lexington – you should review. You may pick up something Kentucky's finest have missed. I would imagine, as limited as the Bernatonio brothers' skill set was, they will need to be replaced._

"I'm more than 4hours from there, can't you..."

_The file has been sent_ the voice cut her off and the phone disconnected.

Marion sighed _electronic phobe _she griped silently and replaced the phone in her pocket, glancing over at Mags and suppressing a smile as she could all but see the wheels turning in her head. "My apologies for the interruption Mrs. Bennett – some calls just have to be taken."

Mags nodded in acceptance.

"You have my word that Boyd Crowder will be safe," continued Marion, bending over her haversack and extracting a small purse. "Unless he gets in my way; but even then I will try and keep the damage to a minimum."

"Oh don't spare the damage on my account," laughed Mags. "As long as you don't kill him." She looked at the woman consideringly. "What exactly are you planning to do?" Marion's eyes hardened in an instant and Mags laughed again. "Ok, ok honey – I'll wait to read all about it," although something in Marion's eyes told her that she might not.

"Thanks for your time Mrs Bennett," Marion nodded. "If I could ask one more thing? I parked my car outside of Lynch, which path would take me back the quickest?"

"You walked in?" Mags' eyes widened; although that explained the absence of car noise the woman had hardly broken a sweat and certainly hadn't been breathing heavily when she arrived.

"Hmm, my car is not designed to be at its optimum on dirt roads – I'm sure I would get charged a premium for getting it dirty," Marion said absently as she picked up another chocolate bar and then added another bottle of water to the pile on the counter. "It was very pretty actually, I took some lovely photographs. But I have a suspicion that the ridgeline I followed was the long way around. I find myself in a position where I have to hurry back to Lexington before the closure of the post office – I need to get to the car quickly."

"There're a lot of hills and hollers between here and there," frowned Mags. "I could get someone to drive you?"

"You're too kind," Marion shook her head. "Thankyou – but I really would prefer to walk."

"Well I suppose Dickie could show you," Mags offered somewhat dubiously – getting back to Lexington before 5 suggested a quicker pace than her son was used to. She rang up the total of the items, taking the money and counting out the change as if the woman was a normal customer. "He knows all the back ways through these hills and hollers."

"I wouldn't want to trouble him," Marion stowed her goods in her haversack carefully except for one chocolate and bottle of water. "But if he could put me on the right track and tell me where to turn, I would sure be appreciative."

Mags had a suspicion that a favour from this woman, and whoever it was on the phone, could be useful. "Dickie!" she bawled. Later she would wonder how the conversation would have gone if she had indicated an affiliation with Boyd and started to consider herself lucky.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

More The Fugitive referencing with 'henky' – as is the Sheriff's name, which I just couldn't resist after learning that it was Nick Searcy who played the role.


	4. Chapter 4

This would have been up my last night – but I was _distracted_ by the awesomeness of Mr. Norman Reedus in Sydney last night – he was charming, funny and very very generous with his autograph – despite the well meant attempts of the bouncer! It wasn't a struggle to look at him from about 2metres away either!

Thanks to sophie1670 and freshouttaideas for your reviews, these supply the fuel for the translation from the mental pictures to words.

Recently I pondered my writing style and how I flick between POVs – sometimes within the same paragraph. While technique wise it is probably not the best thing to do I _think_ it is because I am writing fics in 'tv format' – where you flick from one character to watch another's reaction etc. I do have some control issues – I want you to know what the characters are feeling/thinking... well most of the time anyway.

Chapter 4

"Well well, if it ain't sugartits back again," taunted a slightly croaky voice.

Marion heaved a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment before lifting her head and meeting the slightly apprehensive eyes of Walt. She gave a small motion of her head and he stepped away; her lips twisted slightly as he grabbed a couple of bottles from the top shelf for safe keeping. With him out of the way she focused on the mirror behind the bar, meeting Bo's eyes.

_I told you _snarled an internal voice in satisfaction. _But would you listen? Oh no, you had to come back to this dump – for a bit of tail no less!_

"Good evening Bo," she said quietly, spinning her chair.

"Good _evening_ is it bitch?" mocked Bo at volume, turning to where his mates were poised – thugs 2 and 3 looking a little green about the gills, _possibly still suffering from the after effects of concussion _she observed internally. Thug 1 and Bo himself though were at full strength, although there was a slight suggestion of a bruise around Bo's throat. He leered at her, leaning forward into her face – Marion pulled a face at the odour of his breath. "Imma going to show you a fucking good evening," and he reached forward and took a hold of her shoulder.

_How dumb can you be?_ she wondered, shaking her head slightly. _I don't have time for this._

She offered him a smile – something in it triggered an instinct in him and his leer faltered. She reached back with her hand and took a hold of his thumb, forcing it into a twist that dislodged his grip, then – braced against the edge of the bar – kicked out against his chest. He went back abruptly – his shoulder dislocating on the way to slamming against the wall.

Thug 1 charged – she hopped lightly off the stool and spun under his roundhouse blow, dropping to her haunches and throwing a short jab blow right between his legs. The small extension of her arm concentrated the force; he howled and dropped to his knees, his hands clutching his genitals and gasping for breath. Thug 2 grabbed her from behind – encircling her waist with his trunk like arms, holding her arms tight against her and Thug 3 stepped forward, a big grin on his face. _Haven't seen enough movies_ she thought and threw her legs into the air, using Thug 2 as support and kicked Thug 3 away from her. Thug 2 staggered at the force, but held up – until she slammed her head back into his nose and then her feet into his knees. He crumpled, his arms releasing her as he grabbed at his gushing nose.

Thug 3 stood up again.

"Really?" demanded Marion in disbelief.

He smirked at her, pulling a _big fucking knife _from out of his boot.

Marion's eyes narrowed, assessing the space she had to work with. Her policy was always to be clean in a public space so she had nothing to use as a weapon, except perhaps the small pencils Walt kept in cups on the bar for those wanting to have a bet. There were no bottles within reach and the glass she had been drinking with had the wrong balance. The stool she was sitting on was more appropriate for lion taming than fighting a large man who could overwhelm her. _It was a bit Bourne-esque but the pencils would do_ she thought and grabbed a handful.

Thug 3 laughed and stepped in slowly, _at least this one has some brains_ she observed and eased away from the slice that he pushed towards her – then she stepped forward, waving a pencil at his face. Surprised by the attack he backed up, which gave her room away from the disorientated but still mobile Thug 2 and the whimpering Thug 1. He seemed to realise that and stepped forward – this time she blocked his blow with her arm, accepting the bruise that would result, then spun her arm to catch his between her forearm and upper arm at an awkward angle and drove a pencil into the fleshy part of his elbow. The knife clattered to the ground and he screamed in pain, then drove in with his other hand, clenching his fist. Marion released his injured arm and caught his fist, spinning underneath him and using his momentum to lift him over her back and slamming him onto the floor.

She braced for a second – but while Bo was glaring at her from against the wall, his one arm was useless _and hopefully screaming in agony;_ Thug 1 was still holding himself _singing soprano for a week if not permanently_; Thug 2 was still on his knees looking slightly dizzy with a nose gushing blood and Thug 3 was immobile on his back, a pencil protruding from his elbow. She straightened; brushed her shirt back into order and dropped the other pencils to the ground.

"Sorry about that," she said to a somewhat wild eyed Walt – although she noted with amusement that the dancer was still pulsing hard against the pole _a keeper that one_. She pulled a bill off her roll and dropped it onto the bar. "You have a good evening Walt."

He picked up the bill and then looked up at her. "Any message?" he queried.

Marion paused, giving the bartender a slight smile. "I think we'll let this one go through to the keeper ok?"

He nodded slowly and watched her as she walked out into the cold air.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"What you find out?" asked Art, stepping to the edge of his office and looking out into the bullpen. It was darkened – most of the staff had left for the day, leaving only one marshal with his computer and desk light on in the process of hanging up the phone.

Tim glared at the phone as if it was responsible for the lack of information and gave a groan. "Nothing. Nada. Diddly squat. Zilch," he warmed to his theme. "Not a brass razoo." He had always liked that one although it wasn't strictly accurate in this instance.

Art sighed and extended an inviting, _if one's boss 'invited'_, finger and turned back to his desk. Tim picked up the file and stood, stretching out the kinks from far too much sitting in one day. He glanced at his watch as he took the short walk to Art's office and grimaced – already past 6 _she wouldn't be there anyway_. "The locals couldn't find out anything about the other car – a dark sedan is as much as they got," he reported. "The tyres are universals – on about thirty models – and that's just those released in the last couple of years. The coroner is pretty sure that the Bernatonio's _did_ die from some type of protrusion to the eye – but due to the damage done in the accident and the jelliness, yes he did use that word, of the eye there is no way that we can get any imprint of the blade."

Art grimaced at the description.

"The FBI have identified the hire place, they have Paulo on the CCTV cameras and a very poor, grainy shot of the other car. The night clerk has gone home, has recently moved and so they can't get him until he comes back on shift in four hours," sighed Tim. "They are going to shake the tree and see if they can find out who hired the Bernatoniobrothers – not that they can use it for much."

"So do we move him?" asked Art.

Tim knew why he asked.

There was no proof that the Bernatonio brothers were even coming after Winston – their rap sheets included a multitude of crimes for many and varied employers. While a southern holiday stretched the bounds of credibility too far, there was significant potential that they were travelling south to pick up a shipment of drugs – maybe even from Mags Bennett. Certainly, the weapons they carried weren't appropriate for a hit – although in the right hands they could have been – but a shotgun was messy and beyond a certain range it was more likely to leave its victim full of little holes rather than one lethal one. Moving Winston this quickly after placement exposed more people to the disruption caused by having someone just vanish, and others to having someone just appear – more exposure made it more likely that someone would actually recognise him. If Winston hadn't been compromised – moving him may well do so. But he knew Art was more than capable of assessing the risks associated with this – the real reason Art asked was because of the missing car; the other passengers who apparently took the time to dispatch the Bernatonios to avoid any issues. They were the unknown, but it wasn't a huge assumption to assign them the actual kill duties with the Bernatonios acting as the disposable muscle, the ones that would flush the quarry out of its hole to allow a clear shot. Art wanted his sniper's opinion.

"No," he decided. "Not until we know. If I know it's snipers I can plan – but what if it's not? A protection plan for close contact work is different to that of one for a sniper – we can't protect against both without a lot more manpower."

Art nodded – the opinion tallied with his own assessment. He would have Raylan and Rachel stay down there, confine Winston to his house – away from windows – for the next couple of days. Give the FBI some time to sort stuff out – to figure out who the others were, if their witness was the target, and to plan for the protection. He didn't like leaving two of his deputies in a vulnerable position but for the moment he had no choice. He looked at his third deputy, the marks on his face had become more lurid but the swelling had dropped a little. "Go home," he ordered. "There's nothing you can do here tonight. Take your badge and sidearm with you – just in case you get a call up tonight."

Tim toyed with the idea of protesting but there was only so much staring at crime scene photographs he could do and while his headache had been dealt with by some pills a couple of hours ago the thought of his bed was appealing. He nodded, "see you in the morning then, if not before."

Art nodded, his eyes narrowing at the ease of his victory, watching as Tim tidied the files on his desk, placing them carefully in his WIP tray before picking up his jacket and making his way to the locker room. He exited that room shortly afterwards with a small gym bag that Art hoped included his clothes from this morning for washing _or burning_. He sighed – he knew that Tim drank every night, alone and in company depending on the day, and he allowed it – having an inkling of the weight of the burdens that drove him to it. Never before had it intruded onto his work – but if he was going to start getting into barfights and show up like a demented rainbow then Art would have to step in.

Tim sat in his car for several minutes, the engine idling, looking at his phone and the number he had typed in there this morning. It wasn't wrong – he was sure of it – and yet it obviously was. _'Please check the number and try again'_ the nice lady's recorded message had said. So he had and he did – despite the curious look that Raylan gave him – and got the same result. _She gave you the wrong number_ was his initial, disappointed thought – he knew that he wouldn't have mucked up a simple phone number, well he might have hit the wrong digit on his phone, but he _remembered_ the number she had said – and it was the same as the one he saw on his screen. But it hadn't felt like that sort of _date_ – he'd been on those before when the woman had clearly been only pretending an interest and he didn't even bother trying the number she provided. This morning _hadn't_ been one of those. They'd showered together, sharing a towel which was lucky to even take the drips off them; she'd kissed him as he'd held the taxi door open, she actually appeared regretful to be leaving. And without that number he had no way of contacting her – and she had no way of contacting him, short that was of ringing up the Marshal's office and asking for Tim. _Maybe she'd made a mistake._

He turned the car left when he should have turned right. He knew it was a fool's errand – that she wouldn't be there – that he really shouldn't go back there.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

_Serves you right_ observed her internal voice in satisfaction. _You shouldn't have been anywhere near here._

"Oh fuck off," she murmured out loud, looking into the headlights of the approaching car to make sure it was safe to cross the carpark and then walking to her car, opening the door. "No harm no foul."

_Stupid, stupid_ berated an internal voice. _As if he was ever going to come here again._

"He took my number," she all but whined, closing the door and putting the key into the ignition.

_No,_ corrected the 'sensible' voice. _He took _a_ number – it's not yours – at least you got that bit right. _

"So more the point to try and meet him here," she retorted, pulling on her seatbelt.

_What?_ there was a derisive snort. _So you can get your rocks off again? Priorities Marion – priorities. You have a mission you know._

"Just once _I _wanted to be the priority," she sniffed, her hand on the key. "And besides – uncle was the one who wanted me here."

_Are you sure you want to bring what uncle would want into this discussion?_ The voice enquired archly. _The man is a MARSHAL _it continued insufferably. _Shall we catalogue one by one the reasons why even thinking about finding him again is such a bad idea?_

"I don't need to, I know them," she groaned, putting her head back against the seat and closing her eyes. "He's federal, hell he may even be in my sights tomorrow." _But damn the man was sexy_ her blood started to warm again with just the thought of what they had done the night before – earlier in the morning even. "FUCK!" she swore, sitting up.

"So is this a private conversation or can anyone join in?" asked a dry voice next to her window, somewhat muffled by the glass.

Marion jumped – automatically her right hand reached over to the other seat even as her head turned, meeting a pair of amused blue eyes through the glass. Involuntarily her lips moved into a warm smile – she stared for a moment, then shook herself and wound the window down. "Well hello stranger."

"Hi," Tim replied softly, the tension draining out of him at the sight of her smile. He placed an arm on top of the car and leaned in, the scent of violets wafting up to him through the open window. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"I shouldn't have come back," she told him honestly, acutely conscious of how his eyes flicked over to the envelope sitting on the seat beside her, of the holstered weapon clearly visible on his belt with how his jacket was falling open.

His gaze sharpened and he ran his eyes over her, checking out her hands. "Are you alright?"

_Such a gentlemen_ she thought, taking in the damage still visible on his face, and smiled again. "I'm fine."

"And them?" he enquired, remembering what she'd told him the night before and wondering exactly what the state of Walt's bar was.

She shrugged slightly, "they'll live."

He snorted lightly and for a few moments they were silent, looking at one another.

"So – I tried to ring you today," he said finally.

_Fuck. _She offered him a wide eyed look. "Really?" _Fuck, fuck, fuck. _She made a show of pulling her phone out of her pocket and flicked it on. "There're no messages."

"It wasn't your number," he explained flatly.

_Fuck. _She frowned "what number did you try?" she asked. She gave him a grimace as he rattled it off, "Needs to be a 7 not a 4," she explained. _Uncle is going to kill you. Maybe – but what choice do I have? Hit the accelerator. Oh sure – that's damn smooth. _

He studied her eyes for a moment – she was either actually upset at the mixup – or she was a very good actor. _And what was the point of acting?_ he thought. "So what _are_ you doing here? I thought you were leaving Lexington today," he observed.

"I did – but I had to come back," she explained. She looked over to the envelope, reassuring herself that all the material was securely inside and that it was bulky enough to hide the presence of the weapon under it. "My uncle posted me some photos he wanted my assessment of."

"Posted?" Tim smirked, glancing once at the envelope again. It was a large one, almost an inch thick – one of those used to transport documents between departments of large organisations – he could see 'SR' at the bottom of the list.

She nodded ruefully. "Phones are for ringing people, cameras are for taking photographs and the postman is for delivering mail," she said instructively and shook her head a little. "My uncle has the most up to date printing equipment – my camera is state of the art – but he will _not_ send an email."

Tim snorted, but he latched onto the pertinent information. "So you have nowhere to stay?"

"No," she admitted, an immediate possibility occurring to her. _Be good Marion_. "But I can't imagine it will be that hard to find a bed for the night."

His eyes darkened slightly at the words she used, remembering the night before – he could just make out the flashing purple light of the motel in her rearview mirror. "Probably not," he agreed with just a suggestion of strain in his voice. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No," she admitted again, her body reacting to how his eyes dipped to her chest every now and again. _Marion_ warned her internal voice. "Do you have somewhere to recommend?" she asked, ignoring it.

"This time on a Friday night?" he winced. "Anywhere you would want to eat is now packed."

"Shame," she murmured, her eyes dwelling on his lips longer than they should. "I suppose I'll just to get room service or some Macca's," her tone was regretful.

"Or," Tim paused, wondering whether he really was going to do this. _What if you get a call? There is some serious stuff happening – remember._ "You could always come over to my place? I'm sure that there is enough food there to share." It was a somewhat reckless commitment he knew – Rachel's mum had taken on his dietary health as her own personal crusade but the last time she had filled his fridge had been more than a week ago and he wasn't sure about the status of what remained.

Marion swallowed – her body was roaring approval of the thought. _No, no and no _insisted that annoyingly cautious voice. _Bad idea – really really bad idea_. She smiled, "I'd like that."

Tim released a breath he hadn't really realised he'd been holding. "You want to leave your car here?"

"No," she replied – the haversack and its contents in the boot of the car on her mind. _Oh sure – it's going to soooo much safer taking them to a marshal's HOUSE_! Instead of putting her off, the realisation of exactly how risky what she was planning to do heightened the buzzing in her blood. "I think I had better take it with me – shall I just follow you?"

Tim nodded. "Try and stay on the _right_ side of the road this time though – huh?" he said with a smirk.

She grinned back at him. "I will have you know that I am normally fine," she retorted. "It was just that I was _distracted_ last night."

He swooped down and captured her lips with his – the warmth in her belly exploded in a raging flame and she met him with passion, opening her mouth and accepting his tongue, tasting the day's quota of coffee in him as she moved hers against his.

Tim groaned as his body erupted at the taste of the sweetness within her mouth, feeling her respond to him, almost lifting out of her seat as she pressed back against him. His hand moved from the edge of the window to her face, cupping it and playing with her ear with his fingertips. He felt the shiver go through her and with another groan he pulled away, putting some inches of safety between them. He stared at her wide brown eyes, at her slightly swollen lips, how they parted and the tip of her tongue edged along her top lip. He swallowed, "it'll take about twenty minutes to get home."

"I think I can wait that long," she whispered.

Tim jogged to his car.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Yes I watched the Bourne trilogy recently – the pencils are drawn from a scene from one of the movies (and yes I am so clever with that pun – aren't I?). The 'Really?' could be attributed to Jack Reacher.


	5. Chapter 5

Definitely M related material in here – if it's not your cup of tea then once things start getting wet you need to skip to the next chapter, although you may want to bail slightly earlier.

Chapter 5

Her blood had cooled a little by the time she followed his directions into the driveway of a quaint little house, almost cottage even, looking more like an old lady's house with its manicured gardens than one a single man would own. Defeated, her cautious internal voice had turned instead to precautions during the drive. The gun was placed into the glove box – a slightly above market model which included steel lining and a pin code unlock system. The envelope went into the same place. She turned her phone to silent – she in fact debated about turning it off but decided that that would raise too many flags with her uncle. _So we're hiding it from uncle – does that tell you nothing of how STUPID this is?_

He left his own car on the street – part of her baulked a little _but that's just being downright silly_ she decided and turned the engine off. She was out of the car and had the boot open – having time to glance at the security of the haversack – before he made his way to her.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, noticing the bandage around her palm as he wrapped one arm around her waist and reached into the boot, taking the haversack out of her hand and swinging it over his shoulder – his own small bag hanging against her hip.

"I slipped," she said, deciding that to protest his chivalry was unnecessary and shaking her head as he pointed to the suitcase and swag still in the boot. "Got it caught on a vine and it ripped through," she explained, pushing the button to lock the car. "It's nothing serious."

"What have you got in here?" asked Tim, feeling the weight of the bag as he escorted her along the path to the front door.

"The camera and its attachments are the weight," she explained. "But I have enough clothes there for a few days – just in case I end up being out somewhere without proper washing facilities – or terribly smelling washing powder," she added impishly.

He grinned at her, opening the screen door and then unlocking the main door. "You changed too," he pointed out, dwelling on the curves so effectively outlined by the tight shirt.

"I was _hiking_," she replied, stepping past him and into the darkened hallway – waiting until he closed both doors and then reached past her to flip the light switch. She obeyed the slight touch to her back and led the way, allowing herself to indulge her curiosity and looking in the rooms that they passed. The first was empty of anything except a well made bed, obviously unused; the second, its door almost immediately opposite the first, had been converted to some type of study with a large desk taking up the majority of the space, a computer and paperwork obscuring most of its surface. They entered what she would call the lounge room, with a TV sitting in one corner and a massive bookshelf covering one wall. She gravitated to this despite herself, hearing Tim place her bag on one of the lounge chairs and continuing out of the room. He came back within a few moments, sans bag to find her examining the back of one of the books – he shrugged off his jacket and stepped into his own bedroom, hanging it up and pulling his shirt tails out of his pants. He took his holster off his belt and tucked it, his backup, his warrant card, wallet and (after a slight pause) his phone into the top drawer of his bedside table. She had a second book in her hands by the time he came back and he propped up against the doorframe, catching her slightly by surprise as he spoke.

"My teacher left me those in her will," he explained. "Left me the house too," he added. "She's the whole reason I became a Marshal." (1)

She glanced up. "I wish I had that kind of teacher. Most of mine were good people – they were just jaded I suppose. Did what they had to so I could get through the exams – but never really went beyond the call (2)." She looked back at the books and replaced the two she held in her hands. "Have you read _all_ of these?"

"Most," he nodded, walking forward to look at the library. "Some," he pointed, "are old friends, others" he pointed again, "I haven't read since school and never will again."

"But they were hers," she smiled, looking over her shoulder at him and he nodded, returning the smile.

_Could the bloke get any better?_ she wondered. Ex-military – sniper even, built lithe like a panther, tall enough (she would admit it was silly, but she preferred not being able to look down on her men), picture perfect handsome with gorgeous eyes, an intellectual, dry sense of humour and sweetly sentimental to boot. _Shame about the badge_.

She leaned back, bracing herself against him and kissed him softly. He moved his lips across hers gently, taking first her bottom lip between his and then her top. His arms came forward to rest on her thighs and rubbing upwards, over her hips and her waist, turning so his fingertips led the way across her rib cage, straying slightly towards the centre of her chest and tracing up the curves of her breasts to where the centres were standing proud. He left one hand dwelling there while the other continued moving up, tracing her neck and around her chin and ear to dive into the mass of hair fiddling until it was released from its bond and tumbled down her back. Her own hands, trapped somewhat by his arms, reached backwards, finding either side of his thigh. She moved the outer hand up and around, clasping the curves of his (very tight) rear end; the inner hand she moved more slowly, grazing up his inner thigh until she reached the part of him that was hardening into her back.

Tim hissed as she made contact, tightening his grip in her hair and dragging her head back so that he could plunge further into her mouth. She moaned at the contact and turned, pressing her body full length against him and throwing her arms around his neck. She groaned again – but not this time with pleasure – and pulled away with a frown.

"I stink," she said in disgust, and folded her arms between them, playing with the top button of his shirt.

Tim stayed silent, his blood roaring with desire, one hand still in her hair and the other settled on her ass. "It's not going to help my cause if I said I didn't care – is it?" he asked finally.

She grinned at him. "You'd get points for trying – but no," she replied.

"Well – shower is through there," he indicated the door that he had gone through before. "To the left. I'll go and see what I can fix us to eat," he offered valiantly.

"I'm not actually all that hungry at the moment," she admitted slightly breathlessly.

His brows rose and he swallowed. "It does seem a shame to waste water by having _separate _showers, doesn't it?"

"Conservation of the world's resources is a serious issue," she nodded, leaning in slightly to feather a kiss on the side of his mouth. "Reduce, reuse, recyle – all that sort of stuff."

"Mmm-hmm," he agreed as her lips moved around to his ear lobe. "I'll go get a towel."

Marion allowed him to pull away from her, his arousal evident by his slightly stilted walk and she grinned slightly as she moved to her bag. Her cautious voice had accepted the inevitable and didn't make the obvious suggestion that now was her opportunity to leave – _or her blood was pulsing so hard that she couldn't hear it_. She pulled out her toiletries bag and a fresh set of underwear and clothes, carefully ensuring that the rest of the bag's contents were secure and wouldn't be visible with a casual glance from the top and then zipping the bag up. She left the clothes where they were, but took the toiletries bag with her, finding the bathroom without trouble – the house was very similar to her grandfather's old house – _must be something with the generation_ she decided. He was closing the closet as she came around the door – she caught a single glimpse of a silver cabinet in between the shelves and internally her brows rose, wondering what an ex-Ranger Marshal kept in his gun cabinet and how she could possibly manage to bring it up in conversation so that she could find out. There was an obvious answer to that but her internal voice didn't even bother to warn her off – it was not even considerable.

She had to fiddle a bit to adapt one of her shower caps around her bandage – making it useless as a cap but she wasn't ready for water to touch that particular wound let alone any soap. However tying it in one place with one hand was proving elusive and Tim pushed her hand away to do it for her, she looked into his eyes as his hand held hers and mentally adjusted the temperature that she would turn the shower to.

He took his time taking off his shirts, too busy enjoying watching her disrobe (her actions only marginally hampered by the bandaged hand) and step in the water, then almost forgetting to breathe as she tipped her hair back into the water, lifting her arms up and thrusting her chest out. A strangled noise came out of his mouth and she opened her eyes; they lit up with amusement at his predicament, and she turned just a little towards him and accentuated her position. His hands worked overtime, dislodging a couple of buttons in his haste as he threw his clothes into the adjacent bath – hearing her satisfied chuckle as he stepped in with her, pulling her against his body with one hand as the other yanked the shower curtain closed behind him – more out of habit than anything else. He took a grasp of her hair and attacked her mouth with his own.

Marion felt his erection pushing against her belly and her own body screamed for some release. But while the water was cleansing, it wasn't enough to combat what had been quite a gruelling 8 klick run up, along and then part the way down a mountain. Dickie's directions had helped though and she had arrived back at the car in good time. She had pushed the car, but its engine hadn't had to reveal all of its hidden capabilities on the twisting Harlan County roads and she hadn't had to break the speed limit to get back to Lexington post office in time. She had then sat in the warm car for almost a couple of hours as she had read all the information in the file, looked at all the photographs of the victims and the crime scene – including those showing two marshals attending the scene. There had been notes – her uncle was a details man and required everything to be included, just in case it was relevant – and she had noted with some interest that it was the man in the hat who had done the world a favour by dispatching Tommy Bucks so effectively. But it had been Tim's file that she had spent the rest of the time reading and thinking about. Then she had gone to Walt's bar and had had to deal with Bo and his mates.

She broke away from his kiss, turning in his arms and pushing her buttocks into his groin – he gasped and lifted his own hands to the top of the shower wall, his knuckles white as he gripped it to prevent himself grasping her hips and burying himself inside her. She straightened again, keeping her back to him and a burst of violets flooded the shower as she lathered herself with her soap. Tim reached his hand over her shoulder, pulling down his own bottle of body wash and cloth, leaning into the corner of the shower as he washed himself, watching her hands move over her lithe body as she soaped herself up thoroughly – his arousal heightening further as he imagined his own hands following the same path. Marion tucked the soap in the holder on the side of the shower and turned the put her back into the water, allowing her eyes to track over his chest, admiring the flourishes of the bold tattoo on his right pec, down his belly and across his hips as the water washed the soap off her. She reached forward, trailing her finger down the path her eyes had taken, reaching the base of her shaft and stroking along to the tip, involving the rest of her fingers as she took hold and gently pushed back, stretching the skin over the tip before her thumb rubbed over it.

Tim jerked – the shower gel and cloth dropped to the floor unheeded as he stepped to her, taking possession of her mouth, both hands cupped underneath her buttocks and pulling her hard against him. Marion glorified in the raw power that exploded out of him; he maintained enough control to turn them so that the water cascaded over him, cleansing off the soap. Fleetingly she wished that she was a wispy dainty thing, so that he could lift her up, throw her against the wall and fuck her until she wasn't able to string a coherent thought together. But she wasn't – she was tall and full of muscle and aside from the logistics of the exercise there was just too much risk with indulging her day dream. So she reached behind him and turned both of the taps – the water stopped and Tim's hand reached to push away the shower curtain – his mouth not leaving hers as he stepped her out. They did manage to pull apart long enough to wipe the worst of the water off them and for Marion to capture her wet hair in a towel, but the short trip back to his bedroom was made amongst a tumble of limbs and mobile hands.

She fell back onto the bed – the towel falling out of its tie and her hair released; Tim followed her more slowly, taking his time to move his lips along her legs, over her hip bone, belly and on each rib until he reached the soft curve of her breast. He took its rosy peak into his mouth at the same time as his finger found her centre, rotating the nub so that she jerked and cried out. He moved his mouth up to hers and moved his hand down, sliding his finger in between her wet folds. She thrust up into him, encouraging him to go deeper and he did, inserting a second finger and rubbing against her.

She took a hold of his hair and yanked his head around, putting her own mouth to his ear. "I've changed my mind," she said urgently. "I'm fucking starving!"

He grinned, pulling his fingers out of her and reaching over to his bedside table. He pulled at the second drawer and pulled out a box, upending it as he sat up, straddling her.

Marion giggled at the cascade of foil packets and picked them off her belly and chest. "One at a time," she chastised.

"Don't put them too far," he instructed as he rolled the condom onto himself, leaning forward to kiss her breast again.

"Promises promises," she hissed slightly.

His mouth took hers again, his weight braced on an elbow and forearm under her shoulder. The other hand reached down to grasp a thigh, pulling it forward until it was almost wrapped around his shoulder and he moved his hips to ease himself into her. She moaned as he filled her, the angle driving him deeper – driving her closer to the brink with each thrust of his hips. She tumbled over the edge with a cry, her nails digging into his shoulders as her body pulsed. His own climax followed immediately – her body spasming around his shaft – and he released her leg, dropping down on top of her and, moving his arm, rolled them over.

Marion braced her elbows either side of his head, looking down at him as he lay back with his eyes closed, playing with what had become slight curls at the top of his head with one hand, the other tracing along his cheek to his jaw and over to his ear. She could feel his heart thumping under her, its rapid beat subsiding with his breathing as his fingers traced idly up and down her back. She shivered as his fingernail scraped against her flank and one eye opened in interest – his finger repeated the motion and she flinched; the second eye opened and she saw the glint of mischief but couldn't move before both hands were attacking her flanks. She giggled and tried to escape, but his upper arms locked against her even as his fingers kept up their torment.

"Stop!" she cried out as she wriggled on top of him, gasping for breath between laughs as his fingers found sensitive spots that hadn't been exposed to this type of touch since she was a child. "Tim – please!"

He gave in to her plea, relaxing his upper arms and stilling his fingers – she rolled off him and lay on her side – her face alive with laughter and her chest heaving. He tore his eyes away from that enchanting sight and dealt with the used condom, rolling back over to face her. She eyes his hand with suspicion, but he merely rested it on her waist, tucking the other arm under his head and closed his eyes.

Marion's stomach growled and his eyes opened again, sparkling. "Starving was it?" he murmured with a smirk.

"For food this time," she nodded.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

So that was fun - wasn't it? We'll resume plot and character development next chapter.

(1) Not mine. From "Bygones" and associated stories by freshouttaideas – although I have made up my own layout.

(2) I feel guilty. My teachers were good people and while none of them left me a house, they were not jaded and I am comfortable that a number of them would have gone beyond the call if I had asked.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm not sure that I will ever get my head out of the gutter in this fic – it has a mind of its own. Most of this is happily T rated (at best) but we do give the M rating a nudge at the end – again...

Chapter 6

She had taken one look at his pantry and fridge, muttered something about false pretences and had started to manufacture something from the portion of the vegetables that hadn't spoiled, a packet of noddles, and some bottles of half used sauces. He started out helping but after a while drifted out of the way and allowed her free rein, only now and again suggesting where things might be found when her first and second guess were wrong.

Tim propped his head into his hands as he watched her move around his kitchen. She moved almost gracefully_ maybe she was a dancer. _While he had been happy to drag on a set of sweats and a beater, she'd dressed fully – underwear, slacks and a camisole, she'd packed all her dirty clothes and her toiletries bag back into her haversack – only her bare feet an indication that she was planning on hanging around. She had left her hair out to dry though and his fingers itched to get into it – the way it moved around as she did, how it tickled the top of her buttocks was incredibly sensual and despite what they had just finished doing he found himself turned on. The sight of her in his kitchen almost seemed right – but he realised that he knew very little about her.

"So where'd you go hiking?" he asked, sipping on a beer – the only thing his fridge was fully stocked with. She had scrunched up her nose at his offer though and had a glass of water sitting within reach.

"Harlan County," she replied, intent on the chopping of the carrots and not noticing how he stilled. "Kingdom Come Park to be exact," she continued and he relaxed slightly. "I picked one of the hiking trails – was headed up to Log Rock but didn't make it before I got uncle's call and had to return. It was gorgeous up there," she expanded with a glance over at him. "The autumn – sorry _fall_," he acknowledged the correction with a tip of his bottle, "colours up there are spectacular. I'm going to try and get up to the John Fox Jr. lookout for the sunset – it will be an awesome photo."

"That's what you're doing here?" he asked, watching as she discarded half of the beans that she had extracted from the fridge. "Taking photos?"

"Mmm-hmm," she nodded. "My uncle's printing shop..." she turned and he shrugged slightly so she explained further. "My uncle has a printing shop in Toronto – he started out doing postcards for Niagara Falls; the tourists buy them so quick that you almost can't keep up with the demand. Anyway he wanted to expand, and when I came over – my mum died, he was the only family I had left and he had a bit of a cancer scare – he started getting me to take the photographs." She smiled. "My first one was from under water – it was a good shot, uncle ending up selling the rights to it and bought himself an outlet in New York. Wok?"

Tim blinked and pointed, "maybe in that cupboard?"

"You haven't even opened these cupboards since she died have you?" demanded Marion with a grin.

He shrugged, "I have to admit that I don't cook quite like you do."

"I can imagine – I saw your contribution to the freezer," she said dryly, extracting herself from the cupboard with the desired object. She grimaced slightly and changed hands, using the bandaged one to hold it while she rubbed at it with the dish cloth to remove the worst of the dust and rust.

"Hey," he protested mildly. "There's nothing wrong with what I eat."

She snorted, finding a t-towel in the 3rd drawer _is that a universal rule?_ and giving the wok a wipe over. "I would hazard a guess that that's because someone in your life believes that your health relies on more than a liquid diet and a 10 kay run every day and makes a point to feed you on a regular basis," she pointed to the empty plastic containers which he had left draining after washing.

He grinned, taking another drink. "My partner's mother," he admitted. He saw her stiffen and added, "my _work_ partner – another Marshal – _female_ Marshal," he continued to ensure that there was absolutely no confusion and saw her relax a little. "So you've been doing your uncle's photography for how long?"

She paused, "ten years," she suggested and paused again. She nodded, moving to the stovetop to start the gas and tipping a little oil into the wok. "Yep, that would be right – mum died when I was twenty." The wok hissed as she dropped the bowl of prepared vegetables into it and she stepped back, shaking the wok to keep the vegetables from sticking. "With uncle's expansion there are more of us involved, my cousin runs the New York division and he maintains his own staff but uncle knows everything that goes on. We just recently received an offer for a contract for an adventure touring group – and photos of the Kingdom Come Park and Little Shephard Trail are what they want. Uncle is hoping to retire off it, so he sent me."

"So you're the best?" he smirked at her.

"Absolutely," she gave him a grin over her shoulder, dropping the noodles into the wok and dodging the burst of steam and then adding the jug of sauce that she had mixed up. Tim pushed himself off his stool and extracted a couple of bowls and, after some searching, two splayds – earning himself an ironic round of applause when she noticed. He then moved to the table, moving the gun cleaning rags and fluids off it to a spot against the wall and piling the military magazines onto the far edge. She snorted a laugh as she noticed what he was doing, bringing both bowls over – he rescued the one in her left hand quickly and placed it on the table, pulling out her chair for her. She leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his lips before dropping to the chair.

"So how long are you around?" he asked as he blew on the first mouthful.

She shrugged, chewing hers. "The contract is a little open," she said after swallowing. "I might have three days, I might have two weeks – I'll send through my shots as I get them and if they like what they see..." she shrugged again. She let her eyes drift to the edge of the white beater he wore, hiding all but a hint of the tattoo, and lifted her chin. "What's the ink?"

"Bad decision one night while on R&R," he said evasively and reached down to pick up her leg, propping it on his lap and examining the snake tattoo wrapped around the lower part of her ankle. "Yours?"

She forced herself to relax a little _er hello – Marshal – of COURSE he was going o notice_. "Uncle was so angry at me when I got it," _because hello – identifying mark! _She shrugged. "It satisfied something in me at the time." She ate another mouthful, trying to ignore the fact that his hand had settled naturally on her thigh just above her knee. "'R&R' – you were military?"

He nodded. "Rangers."

She gave a whistle. "Dad used to bag you guys out," she said with a sad smile. "He was in the SAS," she explained at she felt his fingers tense a little on her knee. "_No-one _was as good as them – at least not in their own opinion," she added slightly bitterly.

"They were good," said Tim quietly. "I served alongside the Regiment on a couple of occasions."

"Not Dad," she stated. "I don't mean he wasn't good – I have a drawer full of his medals, somewhere," she frowned for a moment, then shook herself. "He would have been gone before your time though – he died when I was a kid – on a training exercise," she explained slightly dully. "Mum – well she sort of lost it a bit after that – having him survive a couple of tours of Iraq, and whatever other shit he was into and then get done while training."

"I don't remember my mom," he said quietly. "Dad was a drunken prick – I joined up as soon as I could just to get out of the place. Worked my way into the Rangers and then into sniper school."

"Lonely," she said quietly, reaching out and lifting his hand off her leg, turning it to examine the sniper tattoo that he'd gotten after graduation.

He stared at her as she put that hand carefully back on her thigh and then reached past his bowl and took his other hand, flicking it over to examine the tattoo that was normally hidden under his watch – it was rougher, having been done under lamp light in the tent after his first confirmed kill (third actual kill).(1) There was something in her calm manner that was unexpected; she wasn't shocked or overawed. Most women reacted differently to finding out he was a Ranger – they wanted to know how many men he had killed, got off on the threat of danger that they saw around him. Without realising why he found himself talking – she took listened calmly, putting in a comment or asking a question occasionally, sometimes waiting in silence for him to realise he'd stopped talking and continue.

"So is Pete why you don't wear the dog tags?" she asked when his words had finally dried up and they'd moved to the washing up – well he did that because of her hand, but she insisted on drying up even though he was more than happy to leave them on the edge of the sink.

"I normally do," he admitted. "Just not... last night."

She nodded, letting her hand drift along his side as she walked past him to place the bowl back into the cupboard, but saying nothing – for which he was grateful.

"So these photos," he said to change the topic. He hadn't talked about himself like that for years, only even touching on them when in the debriefing session with the Corp's psychiatrist upon discharge, and he felt slightly embarrassed that he'd let himself run on like he had.

Her brows lifted. "You want to see them?" she was slightly dubious.

"Of course," he said in a rallying tone, "you said you were the best!"

She flicked the towel at him and he dodged, dropping the dish cloth and lunging at her. She shrieked and slipped out of the way – he followed her to the lounge room where she braced on the other side of the single chair. He grinned and held up his hands, sitting down in the corner of the couch and showing her an expectant face. She narrowed her eyes at him but accepted that he wasn't going to tickle her again and started to rummage through her bag. She pulled out a large camera, unhooking a bulky attachment off the lens and returning it to the bag before stepping over to him looking at the display as she activated it. She folded herself onto the couch and he lifted an arm so that she could slide up against his side. She held the display up so that he could see.

"That won't sell many postcards," he commented as her first shot showed the Welcome to Kingdom Come Park sign. She dug an elbow into his gut and he grinned, wrapping his other hand in against her waist.

"Not by itself – no," she admitted. "But it could be one of the photos you use on a collage. I actually took it so that I wouldn't forget what the photos were of – after a while even the most spectacular views tend to look a little bit the same."

_She was talented_ admitted Tim as he watched the photos that she had collected flick before him. While the subjects of the photos were 'normal' – the rock formations, the cave amphitheatre, trees and creeks – often the angle that she had taken the photo was not.

"This is my favourite," she said as a photograph of a bright red cardinal came onto screen. It was perched on a slender branch, light green growth visible on the tip – a pale blue sky behind it and looking straight at the camera. "Little bugger eluded me for a couple of hours, flitting back and forth between the tree branches, hardly staying still long enough to be able to aim, let alone actually taking the shot. I'd given up actually – and then he just propped – turned around and looked at me," she smiled and the camera flicked off. "I'll sell that one to a bird watching magazine and they'll _flock_ down here!"

He groaned in dramatic appreciation of her pun and she chuckled, leaning back against him. He rested his head against hers and they sat there for a few moments in silence. Then she yawned. "Come on," he said, "time for bed."

"I'm quite comfortable here," she protested.

"You won't be by morning – trust me on that," he said wryly and she chuckled again, unfolding her legs and walking back to her bag. She carefully placed her camera inside and pulled out a set of floral pyjamas – following him back to the bathroom to brush her teeth and plait her hair, much to Tim's disappointment. He didn't bother changing of out the singlet and sweats he wore, and left her alone in the bathroom to push off the books and magazines that had survived their last excursion on the bed, pulling his phone out of the drawer somewhat guiltily. She came into the bedroom checking for messages as well and they shared grins – thankfully Art had not rung so he placed the phone on the bedside table and pulled back the blankets. Marion crawled in from the other side, putting her phone under her pillow and lying on her belly with her head turned to him. He flicked off the light, lying down on his back and moving so he could feel her breath against his shoulder. He reached out his hand and found her hip; she shuffled a little and moved her own hand to interlace with his.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

The water was cold, it pushed against her relentlessly – it had for the majority of the day. She was tired, she was cold and the adrenalin rush that had sustained her in the beginning had long since gone. Fear was starting to get at her; the certainty about what she was doing had started to ebb away into shades of grey. But her uncle had offered the only place she had in her life – she had no-where else to go. She just had to do this – use the skill her daddy gave her.

There was a movement to her side, a flash of white, but she ignored it because she'd just seen a movement on the surface. The figure was just a hazy shadow at the moment, the dusk light dropping off at an exponential rate – she only had a short space of time she knew that. She focused the lens a little, struggling to keep still in the current, closing in on the surface as the figure moved closer – almost within range. Her heartbeat increased, she stilled it by force of will, concentrating on her breathing. There was another flash – just outside of her peripheral vision but she was focusing ahead of her – the figure was getting closer, walking towards her – she was going to have the perfect shot in 5, 4, 3, 2 – she turned her head suddenly and screamed – the gigantic jaws filled her vision and then the water around her was bloody.

She snapped awake – her heart beat and breathing slowing as she made sense of her surroundings, dismissed the distortion of the actual events of that night as a dream that she had occasionally. She had moved during the night, she was pushed up against him – her head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her – more tightly than she could imagine that she would have stayed asleep to. He was moving though, reaching away from her with his other hand and she realised that there was a loud buzzing sound marring the silence. It stopped suddenly.

"Hello?" she heard Tim whisper.

"Tim," she heard the puzzlement in the tinny voice on the other end of the line. "Were you asleep?"

"It's," she felt him move slightly and there was a glare of light through her closed lids as he looked at the phone, "two am in the morning Art – what the fuck else would I be doing?" Her lips curved slightly at how he managed to inject sass into a whisper.

There was a pause. "Are you _with_ someone?" demanded 'Art' next, apparently interpreting the whisper correctly.

"Hang on would you?" Tim said and put the phone down. She felt him reach over and start to slide a hand under her – she gave his waist a squeeze to let him know she was awake and lifted her head up off his arm. She looked up at him, he gave her a wink and she smiled back at him. He swung his legs over the bed, picking up the phone and shaking his other arm to get some feeling back into it. He walked out to the lounge room, shutting the door behind him. "What's up?" he asked in a more normal tone of voice.

"Sorry to disturb you," Art genuinely sounded regretful. "I thought you might be worried."

Tim felt a pang of guilt at not even letting a thought cross his mind about the situation in Harlan. "You got something?"

"They found the car hire clerk – he gave them the plate details," Art accepted the turn to business. "Didn't have anything on the other hirers – said he did all the paperwork with Paulo. Said he wasn't very talkative, paid the extra for the unlimited miles and the insurance coverage without blinking."

"There a BOLO out for the car?" asked Tim, seating himself on the edge of the chair.

"No need – they found it," replied Art. "Just out of Cumberland – not a print in it."

"So they're in the wind still?" sighed Tim _but closer_.

"If it is actually anything," returned Art. "The FBI are starting to lean towards it being a co-incidence, they cannot shake anything from the syndicate in New York – said that they are more busy trying to hide now that Winston has disappeared off the radar."

It just didn't sit well with him, "why kill the Bernatonios then?" he asked. "If it was just a drug run – why bother?"

"I don't know," admitted Art with a sigh. "I'm going down to Harlan tomorrow – ah later today though."

"I'll see you at seven," nodded Tim, hanging up the phone and leaning on Marion's bag. He realised what he was doing suddenly and sat up off the camera equipment and walked back to the room. The light was on and she was doing up the button on her pants; she looked over at him. "You going somewhere?" he asked.

"Well duty called," she said with a slight smile. "I figured I had better be ready to go when you were," her voice developing uncertainty as she continued.

He had nodded at her first comment and tossed his phone onto the bed – then walked around the bed to sit next to where she stood. He reached an arm out and pulled her between his knees as she finished talking. "Called – said hello and then see you later," he replied, lifting up her camisole and placing his lips next to her belly button. "I wouldn't have kicked you out at this time of the morning anyway."

Marion hissed in a breath as his lips trailed across her belly. "Well I couldn't stay if you had to go."

"Why not?" he asked curiously, pulling his head back to look at her.

"Ah – you're a _marshal_," she stressed. "You could have all sorts of sensitive stuff around here." _Imagine what uncle could do with something like that._

"You going to touch my stuff?" he asked mildly, leaning forward again to trace a tongue along the top of her pants.

Marion shivered. "Well – beyond the toaster, the toilet roll holder and a cupboard door or two I wasn't planning to," she managed as his hands started to move over her rear end. She blocked out the voice howling disapproval at her mangled set of ethics.

"I think I can trust you with my toaster," he murmured.

"So – you don't need to go?"

"Mmm-mmmt," he responded, trailing his lips up towards her ribs, one hand leading the way to push the camisole out of the way. "Not for a few hours anyway."

"Hours hmm?" she breathed, sliding her hands into his hair which had become almost a mop around his head. She took a hold and pulled him backwards sharply, smiling as he landed backwards on the bed. "So – you feel like going back to sleep again?"

"Not really, no," he admitted, propping himself up on his elbows as she pulled the camisole over her head and tossed it behind her. "I may have considered it thirty five seconds ago."

"But not now?" she queried, placing one knee next to his hip, then the other, teasing him by feathering her weight on his hips.

"I'm thinking perhaps sleep is a waste of time," he hissed, clenching his hands into the bedding.

"Well – under-rated perhaps," she qualified, leaning over in front of him so that he was given a view down her bra and through to where the button of her pants never quite got done up.

"Definitely under-rated," he agreed, throwing his head back as her lips found his neck. A hand pushed him gently – but resolutely in the chest. He released his elbows and flattened on the bed – her weight settled on him fully and he swallowed a groan. She smiled at him and reached down to pick up his wrists, lifting them above his head and giving them a firm push. "I've got handcuffs," he quipped.

She looked at him keenly for a second or two. "Maybe later," she licked her lips and his arms jerked as he made them stay still. "I was actually wondering about this sniper training."

"Wondering what?" he breathed as her lips found the edge of his tattoo and traced around the neck band of his singlet to his collar bone.

"They teach you how to concentrate? How to stay absolutely still no matter what is happening near you?" she asked.

"They did," he breathed.

"You any good?" she nibbled at his ear.

"I wasn't bad," he admitted, turning his head to catch her mouth.

She dodged, moving back to his chest and repeating the movement in the other direction. "Really?" she nipped his ear and he jerked slightly. She sat up again and smirked at him. "How about we check that out? You move and I get dressed again? But...," she grinned at his wide eyes and slightly slack mouth. "If you stay still – I'll take them off?" (2)

_Fuck but the Drill Sergeants had nothing on her torture techniques_.

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(1) I'm pretty sure it was a mistake, but in Episode 1 Tim had his watch on his right wrist and a tattoo on his left wrist, whereas in subsequent episodes he has his watch on his left and the tattoo on the right. I liked the idea of two.

(2) I can't remember exactly which one, but this is very similar to something I have read in TWD universe. I didn't remember until half way through this so it must have been my subconscious driving.


	7. Chapter 7

Yay – a full chapter of plot development! Took me a while – but I hope you have enjoyed the ... er... character development of the other chapters.

Chapter 7

_U need 2 c this_ – _back fence 1min_._ T_

Raylan read the text message once and then a second time with a slight frown. Then a slow smirk stretched over his face and he moved to the kitchen which overlooked the back yard. Rachel looked up curiously as he walked in, even more puzzled when he held up his hand to stop her going to the front of the building in his absence. He watched out the back window and she tensed – but then she saw him start to smile and she stepped forward.

Two sets of fingers appeared at the top of the fence, then Art's head and some of his torso came over the top slowly – he wobbled, went back down a bit and then came up in a hurry – one leg came up and for a moment was poised perilously on the edge fence. Then the other leg appeared and he came over in a hurry, only a firm grip on the fence ensuring he landed on his feet at he hit the ground– the fence shook dangerously and the next door neighbour's dog started barking.

"I give it a 7.5," said Raylan in a dead pan voice. "Only because he stuck the landing though."

Rachel bit her lip to stop a very un-marshal like giggle and went to open the back door.

Art took the tray of coffees held over the fence at him and stepped towards the house. Tim appeared at the top of the fence in one smooth movement, paused with both feet propped on the fence and then launched over to land cleanly and step next to Art. Art glared at him and shoved the coffee tray at him, removing a cup. "Morning," he said in a rough tone as he went past Rachel into the house.

"Something wrong with the front door?" asked Raylan from the kitchen bench.

"Chief thought we attract less attention if we came through the back," replied Tim placidly, holding out the coffee tray to Rachel.

"SHUT the fuck up you mangy mutt!" the neighbours voice came in through the open door.

"Smooth," intoned Raylan as Rachel shut the door, watching Tim with a half puzzled frown as he walked over, thinking something was different this morning about his fellow marshal. He seemed more at ease, less like the tightly coiled spring that he normally was. He accepted his cup from the tray held out to him and then looked back up to meet his fellow marshal's eyes; his own widened slightly. "You got laid!" he burst out.

"I'll have you know that the Chief behaved himself with utmost professionalism the entire way down here," chastised Tim. He hadn't so much as _moved_ under Marion's touch as he had _exploded_ (after a disconcertingly short amount of time) – throwing her under him and covering her with his body as he had taken possession of her mouth. He had taken her wrists within his and pinned them above her head between one of his hands, intending to return the favour – she'd tensed enough that he had lifted his head to look her; she'd swallowed a little nervously and he had removed his hand, tracking it along her arm to where it morphed into her breast, feathering his fingers around the curves and his lips around her face until the slight edge in her eyes had been warmed back to lust. Afterwards they had just laid together, naked limbs wrapped around each other, half dozing until it was time for Tim to get up and get ready in time to meet Art. That had been slightly jeopardised by her walking into the shower just as he was finished, but he had made it to the office with a bit of time to spare by missing out on coffee.

"He got laid," confirmed Art with a grin. "He was even leaving love notes at that girl's desk this morning, Amanda.. Amelia.. Amber" he tailed off uncertainly.

"Oh, oh," Raylan waved his hand, knowing the girl that made sheep's eyes at Tim whenever he walked past. "That cute little girl in admin with the blond hair and big..."

Rachel cleared her throat and Raylan swallowed his next words. "Amabel," she interjected.

"Was it her?" asked Raylan with a slight frown as Tim shuffled a little uncomfortably. "Or was it ...

"A gentlemen doesn't discuss the company he keeps," rebuked Tim mildly, propping himself up against the door and meeting Raylan's eyes with an infuriating smirk in his eyes. "How's Winston?" he continued to forestall the comment he could see about to come out of Raylan's mouth.

"Deputy Gutterson?" called a voice even as Raylan opened his mouth. "Is that you?"

"Hello Winston," Tim turned to the doorway on the other side of the kitchen/dining room and blinked. "Keeping a low profile I see – how are you?"

"Oh just peachy Deputy," snapped the short and _weedy_ (there really wasn't a different word for his physique decided Tim) man, dressed in a flamboyant yellow bathrobe, his red hair wispy and uncombed, his moustache a straight line across his lip but with a definite separation between hair and skin the further out it grew. He stared at the purple/yellow bruising around Tim's eye for a moment but his grievance pushed beyond what he might have said about it. "I've been locked up in this house for a whole 24hours – not allowed to go near windows – I thought that the witness protection programme was meant to be safe?"

"That is why there are marshals between you and the windows," Tim pointed out and Winston blinked, taking half a step back into the TV room.

"It's just a precaution Mr. Jones," Art said in his best reassuring-trust-me voice.

"So have they found me or not?" demanded Winston. "Don't you realise you knows what I found? I told you that they'd find me; that there was no-where that you could hide me – they have people everywhere. Gee – one of _you_ could be the informant."

"If it was one of us Winston – why would you still be alive?" asked Raylan.

"Well it is only _one_ of you," Winston replied hurriedly. "The others would stop you."

"We're a pretty tight team," observed Tim and snorted at Winston's sudden expression of fear.

"Enough," decided Art. "Mr Jones..."

"My name isn't Jones," said Winston sulkily.

"For the purpose of this exercise it is," stated Art in his best do-not-argue-with-me tone. "There is no leak within my Marshal office – we do not even know whether there is an actual threat to you. When we know – _if_ and I do stress the if Mr. Jones, if there is a threat to you my Marshals will protect you with their lives."

Winston ducked his head and then nodded. "I do appreciate that Deputy Mullins – it's just, being confined to the house – it's very wearing."

Tim rolled his eyes – this from a man that wouldn't normally step away from his computer for more than 15minutes in a 24hour stretch. He wondered if it would be too much to ring Marion again –he'd tried her number from his car before he had driven away, watching as she pulled her phone out of her pocket and hearing the uncertainty in her voice as she wondered who it was ringing her at 6.30 in the morning. "Just checking," he had said and hung up; she had looked up at him suddenly, laughing and watched him drive away. _What the fuck had possessed him to write that note?_

Art observed the eye roll and sent a glare his way. "It will only be for a short time longer Mr. Jones – the FBI and the Marshal Service are working to resolve the situation as quickly as possible."

"Hmm – I guess it's expensive having two full time babysitters," snarked Winston and turned back into the room, closing the door.

"Door open please Mr. Jones," called Rachel – there was a delay and then the door opened back up. The noise of the TV increased.

"So – what's the status?" asked Raylan.

Art repeated what he had told Tim earlier – that the car had been found wiped clean in Cumberland and that the FBI was thinking that Winston had nothing to do with the circumstance. "I want Tim to go over and have a look at the car, have a talk with the locals, see if there is anything that suggests that they are or are not here in regards to Winston. Raylan – I want you to go and see what the local criminal element knows about the new arrivals,"

"He's referring to Boyd Crowder," put in Tim helpfully.

"maybe there is something else going on in Harlan," Art sent another glare in Tim's direction – it was met with another placid smirk and emptying of his coffee cup. "Maybe it's the locals who are outsourcing and we can just sit back and watch the show."

"And you?" asked Raylan.

Art leaned back. "I am going to sit here and have a little talk to Winston about what else he may know – he _was_ a computer hacker – maybe he found something he doesn't know he found."

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Marion sipped her lemonade in slight disappointment but not surprise, leaning backwards with her elbows on the bar. The bar tender – a native American or Mexican she couldn't tell – had given her the same blank look that most bar tenders in Canada and America gave her whenever she asked for a lemon lime and bitters. She had managed to train a couple of the locals around Toronto and occasionally she happened upon another ex-pat who not only understood the recipe but had enough Aussies and Kiwis in his/her vicinity to have the bitters under the bar – but Harlan County was not one of those places.

The bartender had given her a second blank look when she had asked for the lemonade: briefly she considered ordering a vodka to chase down the soft drink but dismissed the thought – her constitution was good (her liver maybe not so much) but the thought of hard liquor before lunch didn't appeal – and she was going to need steady nerves, maybe even as early as this afternoon. _She did stand out a little too much already though. _The few females that were in the bar were working the room, dressed in hardly there skirts and tubes that covered the highlights of their bust only, cosying up to some of the men who were hunched over their beers and spirits. Marion took another sip as watched an arrangement being made and one of the 'ladies' led her new customer past Marion through a beaded curtain, giving her a glare as she went. Marion saw the distinct warning in them and decided to be amused because she couldn't make up her mind whether she should be offended that she was seen as some type of competition (she _was_ fully dressed, although her singlet top was quite tight and her shorts finished at mid thigh) or take it as a compliment.

The front door opened and she straightened a little, eyeing off the two men who walked in. The first had a square face, short hair which had been brushed forward and he wore a plaid shirt which the sleeves had been ripped from _for what she didn't know – his arms had nothing on Tim's_. Called sharply to attention by her cautious inner voice she flicked her eyes over the tattoos on his neck and arms, eyeballing him surreptitiously as he walked up to the bar, only a few spaces away from where she was sitting. He was carrying and he looked capable enough, he walked with confidence she decided, but not too much of a problem.

Marion turned her attention to the second man who had paused for a moment in the doorway before proceeding into the room at a slower pace. He was tall, but slim, his black hair wildly upright like he'd just been electrocuted. His hazel eyes were coolly taking note of the inhabitants in the bar, dismissing the locals and pausing for a moment on her. She let him meet her eyes and noticed that his indicated a slight hint of surprise, although his face stayed amiable. He nodded to her and entered the room fully, turning to take one of the tables to the side which offered a good view of the front and back entrances. She licked her top lip lightly _here was an opponent of worth_.

"Well well," said a voice next to her and she turned in surprise as the man settled onto the stool next to her. He was older than her she thought, although he still had a slight childish look to him – as if he had never really grown up. His hair was short around the sides but he had apparently put some effort into making the top stand up a bit further. His overshirt was a poor imitation of army green and the collar didn't quite hide the ink around his throat or on his chest; a necklace of some type of teeth was almost tight around his neck and he was looking at her chest with some admiration and lust. "So you're new here are you darling?"

"Ah am," she turned fully to him, her voice to a sultry whisper and changing her accent to about as wide a southern one that she thought he would swallow. "And _who_ are you?"

"I'm Dewey Crowe," he said proudly, lifting a hand and stroking it down her arm. "Elly May would have told you about Dewey Crowe."

"Ah-ha," she breathed and he blinked, "oh she told me alright," Marion opened her mouth a little, letting him see her tongue playing with her teeth – his jaw slackened. She eyed off the tattoo around his neck and the one peeking from over his singlet. "What you got under there Mr Crowe?"

He grinned and lifted his shirt, showing off the Nazi symbol emblazoned on his chest.

"Wow," she murmured, reaching forward to touch the distorted cross. "That must have hurt," she said.

"Like a son-of-a-bitch," he crowed proudly. He looked down and reached his hand forward to her leg, edging it up her thigh. "You a believer darlin'?"

Marion smiled, reaching forward and catching his hand before his thumb could get underneath the fabric of her shorts. "In the power of the white race?" she whispered.

Dewey nodded, his eyes on her bust as she leant in, her singlet dropping open a little as she moved.

"In mah experience," she breathed out, "it's a crock of shit put forward by uneducated, insecure white men with little dicks."

Dewey's eyes snapped up to her face as her words sunk in.

"Now," she continued in the same breathy tone, "next time that you put a hand on a woman, Mistar Dewey Crowe" she took his hand in hers, pushing her finger in hard on his pressure point so that his face contorted in pain; her voice grew sharper. "You'd best be making sure that she wants it there."

Marion stood up – Dewey fell forward off the stool, struggling to stay upright as she kept his hand in hers. She tossed it down and he gasped, holding it to his chest as she walked away, her glass in her other hand.

Boyd Crowder looked up from his whiskey as the tall woman that Dewey Crowe had been annoying folded herself in a seat alongside him and placed her feet on the chair opposite without so much as a by your leave. _She was a pretty young thing – although perhaps not so awfully young _he thought after a second examination of her figure which she stretched in front of him. Her red hair was only half captured in a pony tail, the remainder hung to her shoulders. She was dressed for hiking, tank, shorts and serviceable boots; it wasn't an uncommon garb in this area of Harlan, although her presence in this particular bar had surprised him. He might have made the same error of judgement that Dewey had except that she had met his eyes in a most peculiar way. Whatever he had been expecting though, it had not been anything like how effectively she had dealt with Dewey.

"Can I be of some assistance ma-am?" he asked slowly, carefully.

She smirked.

"I wasn't aware that my offer could be considered funny," he drawled.

She held up a hand. "My apologies Monsieur Crowder," she hastened. "No offense meant – it's just the whole  
ma-am thing, it gets moi everytime."

"Do I know you ma-am?" he frowned a little at her, trying to recall where he had come across a French connection in his previous lives that wasn't even remotely Cajun.

"No Monsieur Crowder, I don't believe that you do," she took a sip from her glass. "It's more of a case that I have friends, who have friends, who are friends of yours. They suggested that I have a chat with you – pass on their respects to you and Ms Crowder."

Boyd was distracted as the door opened and three men walked in – the first two he gave a cursory glance at, recognising them for the type of men that they were even before they walked up to the bar next to Devil. _That was a conversation for later. _The third man, whose eyes followed the two men keenly, he did know – even if he hadn't recognised the tall lean figure, the white hat pretty much led the way through the door and there was no-one in Kentucky that wore a cowboy quite like Raylan Givens. His mouth stretched into a hint of a smile, but he didn't go out of his way to make eye contact with the Marshal, allowing the shadows that he was sitting in obscure him from the gaze. He noted with interest though that the woman tensed at the new entrance – how her eyes returned to the door for another couple of seconds _as if waiting for someone else_.

"True friendship is one of the good Lord's finest gifts," he commented, taking another sip of his drink, studying her.

"It can be," she said, picking up her glass to take another sip as the door remained closed. "But sometimes – the wrong friends can be a liability."

Boyd's eyes sharpened slightly and he followed her sideways glance to the bar where Raylan was standing in a somewhat stilted conversation with Devil and the two other men – _well they looked stilted, Raylan was just having fun_. He placed his drink back on the table.

"Sometimes," she continued conversationally, "even the best of friends can make the wrong choices in life and by doing so; they bring trouble down on themselves. And if we are unaware of this, they can endanger us and the ones that we love." She met his eyes coolly. "_Sometimes _they have to be cut loose, no matter the history between you – for the protection of ourselves and those that we love."

"If I was a man of suspicious nature ma-am," Boyd mused after a pause. "I might think that I was being threatened."

"Oh but that would be such a grievous error of judgement Monsieur Crowder," she said quickly. "Please don't misunderstand my words for a _threat_." She leaned down casually to scratch at her leg – Boyd's eyes followed her hands and despite himself he stiffened suddenly as he caught a glimpse of part of a tattoo _those stories he remembered_. She gave him a sideways glance and pulled her sock back up again, seemingly satisfied with the degree of caution that he now looked at her with. "The word _threat_ in itself indicates that there is a possibility that it won't happen."

Boyd watched her stand smoothly, giving him one more glance. "We understand each other Monsieur Crowder? My friends' friends would be very disappointed if I failed to get my point across."

"I believe we do ma-am," nodded Boyd, looking up to the bar briefly to where Raylan was still engaged before meeting her eyes again. "But I would like you to understand that I hold my friendships very dearly and I would take offense if anything was to happen to those that I consider my friends."

She looked down at him – he thought that he saw her eyes light up as she heard the challenge in his words, but her expression remained neutral. She nodded to him, "fair enough. You have yourself a good day then Monsieur Crowder."

"You too ma-am," he raised his glass at her.

Her eyes twinkled in appreciation at him then walked towards the door, pushing it open with her knuckles – he heard the shattering sound of her glass hitting the ground before the door shut behind her. He stared at the door after she'd left, hardly noticing the long lanky figure that slid into the seat that she'd just vacated. He heard the marshal's one word greeting as if through a fog and shook himself slightly, looking over to the man that could be called his friend or his enemy. He'd reacted to the woman's threat by instinct _but would his life really be that much worse with Raylan gone?_

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..


	8. Chapter 8

Either I have four people reading this story over and over again or there is a silent majority out there keeping up with me. Please, please give me something to work with people! Tell me your favourite line, what you think is happening here, whether you've tried lemon lime and bitters...

I had to wrestle this chapter into existence – apologies in advance if it doesn't flow. I think that this will be the last of the calm before the storm.

Chapter 8

It was mid afternoon when Tim finally pulled the car up to Audry's and walked towards the door, crunching glass under his feet as he went up the couple of steps. Raylan's white hat was visible at the bar, as were the glares of several of the ladies – which suddenly turned to smiles as he entered. He moved his jacket slightly, showing off the badge (more than the weapon) perched on his belt and they subsided, sitting in a corner and glared at him as well.

"Quiet in here today," observed Tim as he perched next to Raylan, taking a glance around the empty bar.

"Let me guess – club soda," snarked the bar tender, turning with measurable disgust as he received a nod from Tim.

"It seems that the clientele get a bit edgy when there's a US Marshal on the premises," noted Raylan absently, his hands around his own drink. His nose twitched slightly. "You get anything?"

"Not much," admitted Tim, holding out some money – his brows rising when it was dismissed contemptuously and waited until the bartender had withdrawn. "The car was completely clean of fingerprints – not a scrap of rubbish in it, not even a stray hair according to the forensics – it's like they vacuumed the car."

"Damn," breathed Raylan, looking around him with a frown and a still twitching nose.

"Yeah," Tim tipped his head a bit. "But," Raylan looked back suddenly and he smirked. "There was a bin about 300yards down the road – owners had put it out too late and missed the garbage truck. On top there was a bag with two hamburger and fries containers – plus a couple of empty V cans."

"Same as the Bernatonios," grinned Raylan, "and you're thinking...?"

Tim nodded. "The State Troopers are trying to track the hamburger joint by the packaging – Happy Johns – and running the cans for fingerprints."

"Nice." Raylan sniffed again and gave him a curious look. "How many trash bins you have to look through to find it?"

"You don't want to know," Tim took a drink.

"I think I already do," remarked Raylan, and finished off his drink. "And we're driving with the windows down."

"What about you?" asked Tim as he started to drive off – the smell of trash had not improved with the fifteen minutes of being left alone in the car and Raylan had wound down all the windows as well as pumped up the air conditioning – despite there being a distinct nip in the air.

"Hmmm?" Raylan looked up in distraction. "Oh – Boyd is building an army alright, there was two new thugs talking to Devil when I got there."

"The Bernatonios?" prompted Tim after a delay.

"Hmmm?" Raylan looked up again. "No. Well," he admitted. "Boyd says not – but I just don't know whether he's on the level or not."

Tim glanced over at him again. "You two have an argument?"

"What?" Raylan frowned. "No, why?"

"You seem distracted."

Raylan waved his hand. "Ah – it's nothing. Probably just Boyd yanking my chain."

Tim's eyes narrowed but he let the subject drop and they completed the rest of the drive in silence.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"It's me," Marion said briefly, as much because she was still breathing heavily from the climb as anything. She shed her haversack and placed it carefully on the ground, taking a seat on top of her swag. Her phone had almost had an apoplectic fit as she had reached the crest and she had taken one look at the last missed call and hit the redial button before thinking about actually having enough breath available to talk.

_Where the hell have you been?_

"In one of what they call 'hollers' around here," replied Marion tartly. "They may as well be the black side of the moon as far as mobile coverage goes." She took a breath, admiring the view over the top of the mountains despite herself – half considering getting out her camera but knowing that it would never do justice to its majesty. "What's up?"

_My negotiations failed. How did yours go?_

"Not so well," she admitted. "I got my point across alright," she rushed to assure him, "but he reacted... unexpectedly. He may be a problem."

There was silence, she reached back into her haversack and extracted a bottle of water, waiting.

_That is unfortunate_. _However not exactly unanticipated._

"And so?" she enquired after swallowing. "Is he the tertiary?"

_No – not as yet_ and she sighed a little in relief. _I will await to see his actions first. His bark may be worse than his bite._

_I doubt it_ thought Marion, but kept her voice light as she teased, "oh – so if he comes after me and kills me, you'll follow it up?"

_Of course I would my dear – how could you doubt? _She snorted in amusement. _ Your other discussion worked well though._

"Mags' friends?"

_Hmm – they made contact and made their appreciation known. It should prove most beneficial._

"Well that's good to know," she said, looking at her hand and making sure that the smaller patch she had filched from Tim's medicine cupboard that morning was still secure.

_Are you in position?_

"Another hour perhaps," she estimated. "It's only a bloody klick as the crow flies, but by the time I go down and back up again..." she left it hanging.

_You have identified your position?_

"Hmm," she responded. "The head of a valley – about a klick from the house. Will give me a shooting tunnel with a 90 degree angle and none of them will be able to get back at me."

_One of the marshals is a sniper._

"I know," she smirked lightly. "I read the file – he's not in play under current circumstances."

_Contingencies?_

She grimaced slightly. "Not really. I'll have the high ground – but if they retreat back towards Redbud I'll have to break cover to pursue." There was a disapproving silence. "The terrain isn't really friendly down here you know – it's a two person job."

_I was under the impression you were the best_. _Or at least that's what you've been telling me all these years._

_Tartness was a family trait_ she thought ruefully. "Blllllrrrrpp," she blew a raspberry, smiling as she heard him chuckle lightly.

_Alright – be careful my dear._

"I will uncle," she smiled and waited to hear the phone disconnect before taking it away from her ear. She scrolled down the missed calls, scrunching her nose slightly as she saw all of them belonged to her uncle's various phones, and placed the phone back into her pocket. She threaded her arms through the straps of the haversack and hoisted it to her back, shuffling until the swag on top found the comfortable spot behind her neck and then started off along the ridgeline.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"Animal," said Tim after fifteen minutes of silent driving.

Raylan frowned and glanced over at him. "What?"

"Animal," repeated Tim.

Raylan stared at him. "What the hell Tim!" he exclaimed in frustration as nothing else was forthcoming.

"Aren't we playing a game of Twenty Questions?" queried Tim sardonically. "Because I brought the Chief down here this morning and now I'm taking you back. Now maybe I'm just old fashioned, but normally the boss is the one who gets to go and sleep next to his wife, or whatever it is that you call her, on a Saturday night. But maybe it's the hat," he ended reflectively.

Raylan rolled his eyes. "I liked you better when you didn't get laid."

"My guess is animal because you have been around Crowder – although I heard Dewey Crowe had been in there, so perhaps vegetable might be the better chance," Tim continued as if Raylan hadn't spoken. "Course it could be mineral – given the whole coal angle."

"I need to look up something at the office," Raylan deflected.

Tim wasn't about to let it go that easily. "And you're sooooo much better qualified for that than the Chief."

Winston had still been hiding with the TV when they had returned to the house; Rachel had risen from her sleep and had opened the front door to them, walking to where Art was pouring over Winston's file in the kitchen. Rachel had given them a brief rundown on the day which hadn't been exciting, comprising of the mail man, three movements by neighbours and an annoyingly frequent barking dog.

"He knows more than he's telling," had reported Art after he had sent Tim to wash what he could without actually resorting to a full change of clothes and they had all sat down to hear what both Tim and Raylan had to report. "But he's not telling me anything."

"Even though he knows someone could be after him?" Raylan had been incredulous.

"He assures me that only the New York syndicate would have anything against him," had replied Art. "The FBI however are of a different mindset – they are assuring me that New York has no links to the Bernatonios."

"So who does?" had asked Raylan.

"_That_ they're still looking into," had replied Art. "So you get to stay down here another night," he started, folding closed the paperwork and standing. "So I'll bid you goodnight and head home."

"Ah," Raylan had intervened. "A word?"

Both Tim and Rachel had watched in some interest as Raylan had drawn Art outside; the neighbour's dog had started off again and they'd exchanged glances as Art had started to gesture and Raylan had sorted of folded into himself, hiding his face under his hat. "Sheeet," had sworn Art as he'd walked back into the house. He'd taken a breath. "Tim – take Raylan home, _tuck_ him in and make sure he stays in one spot."

Tim's brows had risen. "You're staying?"

"Yes, apparently I am," had confirmed Art sourly.

"Boyd told me to get out of Harlan," explained Raylan now, finally as Tim waited with a measure of sniper's patience.

"And of course what Boyd says is what you do – the Chief must be jealous," remarked Tim snidely.

"Boyd told me that someone is going to have a crack at me," burst out Raylan.

"Is that all?" drawled Tim in mock relief and Raylan cracked a smile. "Who?"

"Don't know – pick from the list. If it's true – maybe he just wants me out of the way. Hell it could just be Boyd yanking my chain," sighed Raylan, repeating what he'd said earlier and sat up straighter. "Anyways, the Chief doesn't want me anywhere near the witness until we know what is going on."

"So you're being sent home to safety?" quizzed Tim wryly – trouble having had a way of following Raylan.

Raylan snorted derisively, thinking the same thing. "Boyd did give me a description of the woman that spoke to him – I thought I might have a look on the database and see what I can find."

"Woman?" Tim somehow managed to say in a normal voice, despite the fact that his stomach was down next to the gas peddle.

"Yeah," Raylan glanced out the side window. "French red-head – a looker apparently."

Tim breathed again and the guilt arrived. It was bad enough that he suspected her trying to work him, let alone thinking she could be a contract killer. _How fucking messed up was he?_

"So – your woman," Raylan suddenly changed the subject, uncannily echoing Tim's thoughts. "I gather that you met her again last night?" He watched Tim being silent for a moment. "Don't even try and pretend that you got it on with Amanda..."

"Amabel," corrected Tim.

"because I won't believe you," finished Raylan and laughed a little. "Not after that whole thing with the phone."

Tim snorted _the phone_. _He'd have to have words with her about that. _"Yes Raylan – I met her last night."

"And?" prompted Raylan expectantly.

"She cooked me dinner, we talked and looked at some photographs," replied Tim blandly.

"And you got laid," suggested Raylan.

"And I got laid," confirmed Tim in the same bland voice but with a hint of a smile.

"So when are we going to meet her?" asked Raylan and got a look. "Oh come on – it isn't everyday that a woman manages to draw Tim Gutterson out of his shell."

"She's out of town for a while Raylan – she doesn't live down here," explained Tim. "She might not get back to Lexington."

Raylan turned his gaze to him, his eyes strangely contemplative. "She'll come back," he said with some resolution.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"You know, when I said it was alright for you to touch my stuff," Tim examined his refrigerator's contents with some interest, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder and reaching in for a beer. They had detoured via the office, letting themselves in and Raylan had initiated a search on the computer for his 'hitwoman'. Tim had left him to it, walking past Amabel's desk intending to retrieve the note that he had left for her earlier in the day – but it had been gone; she had apparently come in for a short time on a Saturday. Thankfully Raylan had been distracted and hadn't noticed his expression when he'd returned to the office – they'd decided to leave the computer to work on its own. Despite Raylan's protests Tim had brought him to his own house, quoting Art's orders and ignoring all attempts by Raylan to re-define the meaning of 'home'. He had waited until Raylan had made his way to the shower with his bag of clothes and had gone to the fridge with the intention of finding a beer to take with him to the couch while he spoke with her. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

Marion chuckled, rolling onto her back and looking up into the night sky, holding the phone to her ear and propping the other arm under her head. She _had_ hesitated for about three seconds before she answered the phone – but it was quiet at the house; the Marshals had done their last perimeter sweep – Mullins was set up at the front (her brows rose at the sight of a chief deputy doing guard duty) and Brooks was stuck with the babysitting duties at the back of the house. That technically made the back of the house the hot zone, but the approach from the rear of the house was difficult – one set of immediate neighbours had a twitchy dog which had barked enough to almost get her discovered earlier in the day and the other set had a pool against the side of the fence. So while she had managed to get some measures around that side despite the dog, her main focus was on the front of the house which faced directly into the mountains – both the easiest access and escape point. "How'd I do?"

"Not bad," he acknowledged, examining the containers of juice, the cheese and one person's serves of lasagne and other meals. "I'm actually hungry looking at it."

"Well so you should be," she snorted, looking at her watch. "It is after 10 o'clock."

"You weren't sleeping were you? I would have called earlier – but it was a long day at work," he remarked sardonically.

Marion stilled momentarily, then bit her lip firmly. "Oh-oh," she managed.

"Yes thanks for that," Tim said dryly, shutting the fridge on the food and cracking the lid off even as he heard her giggle. Art had returned from the car with an overnight bag, something which decades of experience had taught him to pack regardless of plans, just as the clock had clicked over to 6pm. "Tim," had whispered a voice and they had all frozen, both Raylan and Rachel had their hands on their weapons. "Tim? I'm _starving_. Tim – you need to _feed _me." Tim had put his hand into his pocket and withdrawn his phone – the display indicating that the 'dinner' alarm was going off. "Tim – please," whispered the alarm in a seductive whisper, "you need to feeeeeeeed me. Tim, Tim? I'm _starving_" it had started back on its cycle before he had straightened his head enough to turn the alarm off. "Oh I want to meet _her_," had grinned Raylan, Rachel hiding a grin behind her hand and Art just shaking his head.

Marion struggled to swallow her laughter. "Oh I'm sorry about that Tim," she sputtered. "It is Saturday after all and I thought after the early start..."

"No you're not," he observed but with a smirk. "Do I have any other surprises to look forward to?"

"No," she promised. "You didn't leave me alone long enough to do anymore." _Such a wasted opportunity_ had lamented her internal voice at the time.

"Hmm," he expressed doubtfully and heard her giggle again. "So you get up to the lookout?"

"No," she replied. "I got distracted and went in the other direction."

"Distracted?" he repeated warmly.

She bit her lip to halt the tide of warmth that swelled at his tone of voice. "Distracted as in 'ooo shiny'," she retorted slightly tartly but then changed her voice to a breathier tone, "not 'oh fuck oh fuck, oh fuck'".

Tim choked on his beer. "So where exactly are you?"

"Exactly?" she repeated doubtfully.

Tim's brows quirked. "You're lost?"

"No," she returned with some indignation. "Just because I cannot say precisely where I am doesn't mean that I am _lost_."

Tim snorted. "So what exactly does it mean?"

"That I'm just temporarily disorientated," she replied, smiling as he heard his chuckle. "You should see the beautiful shot I got of the moon coming up over the mountain here, just like a big yellow ball of cheese – reflecting in the waterfall. I should be able to get the same thing of tomorrow's sun – I'll shop it and it's going to be on the cover of National Geographic and I'll be able to retire."

"Ah-hmm," returned Tim. "So you're camping out tonight?"

"Hmm-hmm," she returned, rolling back over to look through the sight, the night scope giving everything an unearthly green tinge _all quiet_. "I have my swag – bedroll," she added before remembering that he would know what a swag was. "I have a little fire," buried about half a metre into the ground to prevent the light showing, "and I have some canned tuna for dinner."

"Delightful," he observed. "Especially of it rains."

"I think I'm safe for tonight based on all those stars above me," she said with a slight smile. "Not a camping man?"

"Too many nights out in the open for it to appeal to me," he returned slightly dully and she closed her eyes, kicking herself mentally. "Just be careful out there – you'll lose all signal down in the hollers."

"You worried about me Deputy?" she quizzed.

"Maybe just a little – Harlan can be a bit of a wild place," he explained.

Marion smiled. "I can handle myself."

"I know," he smiled back. "Would you hate it if I said that doesn't really change what I feel?"

"No," she whispered. "I'd think it was quite sweet actually."

"I'd feel much better if you were here with me," he said.

"I'd be there if I could," she assured him honestly. "So are you planning on more than drinking that beer and the rest of his brothers before going to bed?"

Tim lowered the bottle away from his mouth, smirking. "I might go and try out one of those lasagnes," he offered.

"At this time of night?" she protested. "Ye gods, do you know nothing of nutrition? Go for one of the salads."

"Yes ma-am," he replied dutifully and heard her giggle. "What?"

"Tim – you have seen me naked – I don't think ma-am is applicable anymore."

Tim allowed the memory of that image to come into his mind and expressed his appreciation in a slight moan.

"You going to talk dirty to me Marshal?" she whispered huskily.

"I might," he replied warmly – then looked up as Raylan walked in, hair still wet from the shower and saying something "have considered it," Tim added with a frown even as Raylan held up his hands in apology and walked out to the bedroom.

"Company?" she frowned, having heard a male voice through the phone.

"It's babysitting night," he confirmed and smirked as Raylan's 'I heard that' floated down the hallway.

Marion sighed _probably a good thing _"I had better go anyway," she decided. "Before I run my battery out."

Tim swallowed audibly and she giggled. "My phone battery," she clarified and giggled again at his 'oh' of understanding. "Goodnight Tim," she murmured.

"Sleep tight Marion," he breathed and waited until she had hung up before tossing his phone onto the couch next to him with a sigh. _Fuck – what had he done?_

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	9. Chapter 9

In which the shiteth hiteth the fan. Is actually a short chapter (for this fic anyway) because it was massive but I took the next chapter out of it because 5000 words per chapter is just too much. We all have real life to do something in – of course, whether we _want_ to is a different thing...

Sorry I have missed a few posting nights, I have struggled to get these next couple of chapters where I want them to lead for the action.

Chapter 9

Tim woke earlier than normal and after checking that Raylan was still fast asleep in the spare room went for his customary run, stretching out and lathering himself into a sweat to escape the demons of his nightmares. A sign on the top of a building caught his attention as he turned into his road and he stopped, frowning as he tried to remember where he had seen it before. He saw the menu on the window before he remembered it was in his fridge and took the time to see the exact extent of what was offered and memorise the phone number, noting that it was not only open early and late but that there was a home delivery service.

Raylan was still asleep when he got back and he allowed himself to luxuriate in the shower longer than normal, teasing the last of the hint of violets from the room with the steam. The smell of coffee was enough to drag Raylan out of bed and they put a dent in the food stores in the fridge and then logged on remotely to the office and rang Art. Neither had any progress to report, so Tim opened up his gun cabinet and enticed Raylan to join him in his customary excursion to the gun range – checking in the mirrors the entire way to make sure that there was no-one following them. They used up several hours there, Raylan showed enough of a natural aptitude for the longer range weapons that Stan the manager became tolerant and Tim had a whale of a time sighting in Stan's newest toy. They delayed to enjoy a long lunch with Stan, Raylan's presence prompting the repeat of several of Stan's Vietnam war stories – stories that Tim had heard many a time but was happy to have said again while he cleaned the weapons. They left mid afternoon, Raylan the recipient of an invite to return and improve his aim, and made their way back to Tim's house.

Tim's phone rang as they entered the front door. "That your girlfriend?" asked Raylan.

"No, it's yours," replied Tim and answered the phone. "Hi Chief."

Raylan pulled a face and ducked into the study to check on the results of his search. Tim continued down the hallway more slowly, turning to the gun cabinet. "No, nothing happening here." He keyed in his code for the cabinet. "Are they sure?" He placed the rifles back into the cabinet carefully, dropping the carry bag into the linen closet, and locking the door. "I don't like co-incidence Chief – I get twitchy." He walked into the kitchen, taking the beer that Raylan offered him _from his own fridge_ and propping himself against his bench. "Yeah – no problems. He's kind of growing on me."

Raylan raised a brow as Tim hung up the phone, waiting as he took a swallow. "The Chief and Rachel are coming back now."

"The FBI cleared it?"

"Apparently there is absolutely no evidence or even likelihood that the New York syndicate is pursuing Winston. They've picked up ten of them in the process of leaving the county; there are no phone records between _any_ of the players and the Bernatonios and there is not even a hint of a whisper that anyone knows where Winston is."

"What about your fingerprints?" asked Raylan.

"No match," returned Tim in disappointment. "Yours?"

"Nothing," Raylan frowned. "No, I mean nothing," as Tim shrugged. "As in the computer did not return a single likely match."

"Well apparently there aren't many red haired French hitwomen out there," quipped Tim.

"Or Boyd was yanking my chain," commented Raylan sourly.

"Or Boyd was yanking your chain," concurred Tim with a smirk.

"So I can go home," started Raylan.

"Uh-ah," Tim cautioned, swallowing a mouthful of beer. "Chief's orders are that you stay with me until we have had some time to actually figure this out. But," he added on a brighter note. "You do get to come to Rachel's mum's place for dinner tonight."

Raylan's eyes lightened at the prospect. "I had better ring Wynona then, tell her to stay away from my place for another night."

"Your place?" mocked Tim as Raylan walked out. "Raylan it's a motel!"

"Well at least I know she doesn't just love me for my money," Raylan tossed back over his shoulder.

Tim smirked and reached back for his phone, finding one of the last numbers dialled and hitting the green button.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Marion heard the phone chirp at her from a distance and cursed mildly, wiping her hands hurriedly and snatching it up. Her day had been very boring; she'd woken up with the sunrise and taken the photo that she'd told Tim about the day before, in fact a whole series that she was already thinking of how she could format together for advertising purpose. She'd watched the neighbours go off to, and then return from, church in their Sunday best, watched one neighbour walk his noisy dog around the block and the newspaper delivery boy cycle around. The chief had been the one to pick up the newspaper, his jacket over the top of his gun but his hand held close as he took in all the activity. She amused herself by seeing how many shots she could have taken on him, taking his knee, then his gun elbow, then the other knee and on, phantom loading when she depleted the magazine. Then he went inside and the boredom had hit. She had spotted an eagle soaring on the thermals above her and spent some time with the rifle in the air just watching him and envying him his freedom. She felt his exhilaration as he dived suddenly, simply folding his wings and plummeting to the ground and took a series of photos but due to the slopes around her she missed the actual kill. She caught sight of him back on the updraft, a large snake still wiggling between his talons and laughed a little at the irony. With his departure the boredom had just increased and she had resorted to making up stories about herself and Winston – that soured very quickly – so she had widened her imagination to the marshals protecting him. That had very quickly deteriorated into an erotic fantasy about Tim and with a frustrated groan she had taken herself over to the waterfall to splash some cold water on herself.

She glanced at the number and smiled, "your ears were burning were they?"

There was silence for long enough for Marion to realise what a horrible mistake she had just made and her smile vanished.

_I beg your pardon?_

"Uncle," Marion said in a falsely bright tone as she recognised the icy accent on the other end of the phone. She squeezed her eyes shut, grimacing in horror _fuck, fuck FUCK_. "What's up?"

_What the HELL have you been doing miss?_

Marion winced at the title – it had been cute when she was young, but now it just meant that she was in trouble. "I've been waiting for the target to show himself," she tried.

_Don't you fuck around with me Marion._

She winced again, because if uncle was swearing she was in a whole _world_ of trouble. Desperately she tried to think of something plausible – and failed. "Sorry – I was expecting another call," she explained.

_Another call?_ the voice almost shrieked back at her and she twitched. _Who the hell have you given this number to?_

"Just someone who I met in a bar," she replied then realised how bad that sounded and added quickly added. "I had no choice." That didn't sound that much better.

_No choice? Now you're just trying to piss me off. Who?_

Marion turned in a quick circle, kicking at a stone, staying silent.

_Who Marion?_

"Gutterson," she gritted out.

_Deputy US Marshal Timothy Gutterson_ repeated her uncle in slow and deliberate tones, as if the slow repetition was going to make it sound any worse. And it did. _The one man who could actually pose a risk to this operation?_

"I didn't know that at the time," she returned sullenly. "It just happened that way."

_And what exactly 'happened' Marion._

Marion rolled her eyes, resisting. He said her name once more and she sighed. "I picked him up in a bar ok?" His hiss was enough to answer that question. "I didn't know he was a marshal– it wasn't that type of bar," she added dryly.

_But you did find out that he was a marshal_?

_No-one ever said her uncle wasn't sharp_ she contemplated sourly. "Yes, I found out the next morning."

He made a sound that only a man who has treated her like a daughter could at that little detail. _You intrigue me my dear. It was at this point you gave him your phone number?_

"No," she refuted indignantly. "I gave him a blind."

_So how did he get it Marion?_

_In for a penny, in for a pound_ Marion decided. "Because I gave it to him the next night when I saw him – he'd tried the blind so I didn't think giving him another blind was a good idea."

There was absolute silence and she lowered herself onto a rock, head in her hand.

_So – let me just get this straight Marion, because I have a feeling that I have missed something incredibly vital to a brilliant plan that you have apparently been working on without my knowledge._

_Fucking sarcastic bastard_ Marion thought, but kept her thoughts to herself.

_You not only made the monumental error of judgement to ... er... 'pick up' a United States Marshal on your arrival in Kentucky, but you then proceeded to meet him AGAIN – and I presume for more than a cup of coffee – and this time compounded your stupidity by giving him your REAL phone number? Just to make sure that, despite all my efforts using a network of phones, that you can be traced by your phone's position in the MIDDLE of a mission? AND that you have actually been taking calls from him on your phone. Does that about encapsulate the situation?_

She was silent. _It did sound bad._

_Marion?_

"Yes," she said sullenly.

_Anything else you'd care to share?_

"Not really, no," she snarked back at him.

_You did at least take precautions?_

Marion smirked despite herself, but she knew that her uncle was not referring to the precaution that sprang to mind first. "I wiped over every surface – there's not a trace of me there."

There was a silence again; then his tones continued musingly. _Well that does explain a few things._

Marion frowned at the sudden change in tone. "Pardon?"

_I was ringing to ask you if you had any idea why _BOTH _your agents have suddenly have been overcome with an overwhelming desire to visit Kentucky._

Marion's mouth dropped open. "_Both_ of them?" she repeated blankly. "Are you sure?"

_No Marion – I'm making a wild guess._

_There was the sarcasm again_ Marion noted sourly but silently. "There is no way that he made that link."

_He didn't see that tattoo of yours then – on either of the nights? Romance must truly be dead in the younger generation, why in my lifetime..._

"Yes he saw it," she interrupted him hurriedly, grimacing a little. "But he didn't recognise it – I'm sure of it."

_No he didn't recognise it. _ She smiled briefly in satisfaction but then frowned again as she realised that didn't make sense. _What he did was initiate a search through the database for a redhaired French woman with a tattoo of a snake on her ankle._

"But I wasn't wearing her when I met him," she protested. She heard a noise, somewhat like a cat being strangled. "I was in a _bar_ uncle, at the end of a very long day no-where near my target – I ordered food – it's not like I could change after he had seen me and heard me." There was silence and her mind ticked over, playing back the day before, and she swore. "Crowder," she groaned.

_Crowder is not a United States marshal._

"No, I know," she snapped. "But I was Amelie when I met him. He must have thought I was referring to him."

There was a slight pause. _You are being obscure Marion._

"Givens was in the bar when I met Crowder – Crowder must have thought I was referring to the deputy during our discussion."

_The one with the hat? He and Crowder are childhood companions – they have a curious love/hate thing happening now._

"Crowder must have warned him," nodded Marion. "After I left. And he's used his marshal's clearance to search the database."

_Exactly how many Marshals have you been consorting with Marion? On the presumption, perhaps erroneously given the circumstances, that you didn't use your _NAME_ when talking to Crowder, a search on Amelie would not yield anything to do with the Arnold name._

"No – I'd be thinking that one was Gutterson," she replied, absurdly satisfied that he had sensed something was off and decided to check up on her. "He'll make the connection though," she warned. _Distracted he might have been, but faced with a suggestion of what she actually was – all the pieces would slot into place_ she knew. "Can you fix this?"

_While your confidence in my abilities is satisfying my dear_ her uncle said dryly _sadly no_. _I did manage to prevent the information being issued electronically, but you know how excited those two get – we will have to face the consequences head on. _

_Fuck_ sighed Marion.

The phone was silent for a moment, then _well I have to say my dear, you do know how to pick them – in different circumstances I may even have approved. He was the one who found the fingerprints._

"Fingerprints?" she frowned.

_Carlos and Miguel. _

Marion let out a slow whistle. "They're the unknowns?" Her blood started to warm at the thought at the match-up and then she saw the problem. "You mentioned to them that I am interested?"

_They are aware. As I said, my negotiations failed – quite spectacularly actually. _

"You're being careful?" she said in some alarm.

_I may be old my dear, but I am well able to protect myself from these types of scum._

Marion wasn't convinced. Her uncle _was_ getting old and despite his words, he often acted like he wasn't aware of it. More and more there were younger men who thought that he was due for retirement and she fretted a little at being this far away and unable to protect him. "They have powerful friends uncle."

_So do I_.

She wasn't convinced, but she knew better than to press further. "So the marshals know about Carlos? That's going to make things a bit more difficult."

_No – there was an issue within the FBI and the results of the analysis were lost shortly after identification._

"Oh were they just," she noted dryly.

_Indeed. Additionally, the FBI have determined that Winston is no longer under threat._

"Shit" she raised her brows and stood up from her rock, walking back over to where her rifle and other equipment was propped, lying down to squint through the scope, checking that the marshals' car was in fact still in place and that there was no sign of movement anywhere else.

_You have such a unique way of capturing the nuances of the situation my dear, _he sighed_. I would expect therefore that something may happen shortly – otherwise I would send down another team._

She had enough pride in her work that she was annoyed by that, but she gritted her teeth in silence, comforting herself with the word 'team' as her replacement. "They're going," she reported as the door opened and Brooks walked out, followed by Mullins – Winston standing at the door. "Do you want me to make myself known to Winston?"

_No, the less he knows the better._

"Playing Robin Hood uncle?" she quipped.

There was a derisive snort down the line. _We will talk later my dear._

"Yay," she said mockingly and heard a click in her ear.

Her display changed with the disconnection and she saw a phone number showing up as a missed call. "Fuck," she swore and tossed it lightly over her shoulder onto her bedroll.

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	10. Chapter 10

The continuation of the shiteth hiteth the fan. A smallish chapter (for this fic) again – but it would have been too big all together with the last chapter.

Chapter 10

Tim frowned at the phone as he heard the familiar, but empty voice saying that now familiar phrase '...not available right at this moment. Please leave me a message and I will get right back to you.' "It's me – again," he added as he stepped out of the elevator, glancing through the doors at Amabel's desk and finding it empty. "Ring me will you – just so that I don't panic and send out the 101st Airborne looking for you."

Raylan quirked an eyebrow. "She standing you up?"

"Maybe," admitted Tim. "She was hiking in Harlan though – cell signal is patchy at best."

"I'm sure that's it," grinned Raylan and opened the door to the bullpen, letting Tim precede him through the door.

Rachel looked up with a smile and took the coffee Tim held out to her. "So how is Winston?" he asked, letting Raylan slip past him into his cubicle before moving around to his own to place his cup of coffee on his table. He took Art's cup out of the tray, noticing a folder on his desk with a post-it note emblazoned with 'The info you wanted. A'. He missed half a step as he realised what it was, but dropped the tray into the bin and walked towards the Chief's office.

"Deputy Raylan Givens," yelled a voice from the door. Everyone looked up at the tall and broad man standing in the doorway, every inch of his dark suit and sunglasses proclaiming him as government agent.

"Here," called Raylan, turning back from placing his hat in its customary position. "Can I help you?"

"You can tell me the hell why you're interfering with an FBI investigation," snarled the man, followed by a much shorter, but similarly dressed man.

_Danny and Arnie_ Tim dubbed them, being reminded of the movie (1), stepping out of the way nimbly as Art marched out of his office towards the group and following at a more relaxed pace, still with Art's coffee in his hand.

Raylan was holding out his hands innocently, leaning back in his chair. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that shit!" yelled _Arnie_, incensed by the attitude and holding up a handful of file. "We have your _name_ on the search for The Serpent Marshal," he sneered. "And the internet trace on the Arnold's website brought up an IP address in this building – are you going to pretend it wasn't you?" he demanded.

Tim stiffened marginally even as Raylan looked over with a laugh and happened to meet his eyes. Half a moment went past then Raylan stood, smiling and holding his hands out. "You caught me I guess."

"Since when the hell is assassination and money laundering under the purview of the Marshal's Service?" shouted _Arnie_.

"Since when is it acceptable to come into my damn office and yell at my marshals?" demanded Art as he came up next to _Arnie_, Tim having recovered himself to be at his shoulder.

"Who the fuck are you?" demanded _Arnie_ turning around.

"I am the fucking Chief Deputy US Marshal of this office," returned Art with spirit. "Who the fuck are you?"

_Arnie_ recovered his composure. "Special Agent Weatherby," he said in a stiff tone. "This is Special Agent Rudic," he indicated his colleague and with almost synchronised motions they flashed their credentials. "Of the Federal Bureau of Investigation – New York office."

"Well I don't know how they do things in New York Special Agent Weatherby," started Art in his you've-pissed-me-off-asshole voice. "But here in Kentucky we actually ask permission of the Chief before we bawl out one of his Deputies. There are few privileges associated with this job and I guard each one of them jealously."

Weatherby frowned in confusion as Art glared at him, flicking his eyes to Tim who was smirking and Raylan who had snorted, and glanced at Rudic. "My apologies Chief," he started in a more reasonable voice. "There has however been a gross attack on the jurisdiction on two of FBI's longest running cases and if they have been compromised in any manner – I will have someone's head on a platter."

"That's another one of the perks," stated Art casually. "Now – why don't you step into my office and you can discuss it? Raylan – perhaps you'd care to join us?" he suggested with a raised brow.

The FBI agents followed the chief with Raylan slouching behind them – Tim followed and manoeuvred his way to Art's desk to place the coffee cup on the table. "Thanks Tim – if you could..." Art blinked at the arms crossed across Tim's chest as he leaned on the corner of the lounge "wait just over there," he changed his words mid stream. "Raylan, if you could," he blinked again as Rachel deftly ducked under Raylan's arm and found a spot next to Tim "shut the door." He sighed and indicated the two seats in front of his table for the two FBI agents, reaching for his coffee and sitting down at his own chair: Raylan closed the door and moved to the side of Art's desk. "Now – if you wouldn't mind telling me why the FBI has come into my office this morning?"

"On Saturday night Deputy Givens," Weatherby gave Raylan a glare, much to Raylan's amusement, "initiated a search for The Serpent."

"The Serpent?" repeated Rachel with half a laugh throwing a glance at Tim. Her eyes narrowed when she didn't get the answering smile she was expecting and she took a glance over at Raylan, finding that he too was watching Tim carefully.

"Did you do such a search Raylan?" asked Art with half a grin.

"Not to my knowledge," returned Raylan casually, leaning back against the wall and waiting to see where this went. He was becoming very interested in Tim's reactions.

"So what is "The Serpent"?" asked Art, punctuating his voice with the inverted commas.

"The Serpent is the code name for one of the most dangerous contract killers in the northern American continent," returned Weatherby, picking up one of the files from the table. He saw the reaction of Art and Raylan. "So you do know about her?"

"Probably not as much as you think," replied Art, making his own conclusions about the look on Raylan's face. "Why don't you tell us," he invited, "who is _she_?"

"She's a violent contract killer," replied Weatherby, and lifted up a thin manila folder and handed it over to Art, who leant back into his chair a little and opened it up. Raylan moved to put himself behind him and looked over his shoulder. "We estimate that she has about one hundred kills, she stabs them, poisons them, bashes them to death, shoots them. There isn't a method of killing that isn't in her resume."

Tim reached forward over Weatherby's shoulder and picked up the other, much larger folder. "That's the Arnold file," said Rudic, reaching for it, but Tim just nodded and leant back against the window, opening it. Rachel flashed a glance to Raylan, received a raised brow in return and leant closer to look over Tim's forearm when he didn't immediately lower it to a better height for her.

"So why hasn't the Marshal Service ever heard of this "The Serpent"?" quizzed Art after a momentary pause, and flicked through the rather gruesome photos within the file, Raylan pulling faces behind him.

"Because we have nothing on her," replied Weatherby in some disgruntlement. "And I mean nothing. Everyone knows she exists – she's like the boogyman story that criminals tell their kids – rat on your pops and The Serpent will come and get you (2)."

Art cocked an eyebrow at Raylan; Raylan just smirked back then glanced up at Tim expecting to see an answering smile, but found instead that he was busy reading the file in his hands as if it was the new best selling fantasy novel.

"But we have nothing on what she looks like," continued Weatherby, oblivious to the byplay in front of him. "She doesn't leave anyone alive to tell the tale – we have no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing."

"So to ask the obvious question," said Raylan. "How do you know that she is a _she_. I can't image that there are too many hitwomen out there," he tipped his eyes up to check for a reaction – _nothing, not even a twitch of a smile at his own words being used, still reading_.

"She left two witnesses alive about five years ago," replied Weatherby sourly. He forestalled the next obvious question even as Raylan's mouth opened. "One was five years old and the other one was her blind grandmother. All we got out of them was a French accent, soft step and a smell of freesias. The little girl said she had a scary picture of a snake on her ankle."

Tim heard Raylan's response to that through a fog as he focused hard on the file in front of him. It was all there – everything she'd told him; how Tony Arnold had emigrated from Australia to Canada after finishing his teaching degree, taught art for years at a small school and worked his way up to head master. It documented his occasional trips to Australia while his SASR soldier brother was alive, the amounts of money that he had sent to Australia after his death in a training accident. It detailed how he'd resigned while still relatively young and opened a successful printing shop in Toronto, taken in his niece when his sister in law had died, how the business's success had all but exploded and how he had opened a printing shop in New York which his son ran. Then there were the bits that she hadn't mentioned – the allegations of false identity papers that had been with him since his teaching days, the money laundering through the printing shops, the money counterfeiting (foreign currency mostly so there was little interest from the Secret Service); the drugs and the protection business that ran from the New York office; the assassinations.

He turned the page to the next section of the file and stared at the large glossy photo. She was walking in front of her uncle; there were other figures behind him that were out of focus – whoever had taken the photo was concentrating on her. She was dressed elegantly, slacks and a purple tailored blouse only partially covered by a suit jacket; her hair wrapped in a loose bun at the top of her head. There was no sign of a gun, but just from how she held herself, the way her eyes were focused, he knew she carried one on her hip – and he felt stupid. He'd _sensed_ it, the way she handled herself, the way she didn't even blink when he held a gun to her face, the way she moved – he'd just been so blinded with lust that he hadn't allowed himself to suspect. In the cold light of day now it was all so blindingly obvious. _The woman that he'd slept with was an assassin, possibly out to kill his partner._

"Tim!" he started as the almost shout and Rachel's soft touch to his arm finally penetrated and looked up, finding Art was holding out his hand for the file and that Rachel was looking at him curiously.

"She's something isn't she," smirked Rudic, reaching for the file and noticing the page he was on. "You can't imagine what _hard_ship it was to follow her around all day," he nudged Tim with a wink. He looked up and took half a step backwards at the hostility in Tim's eyes.

"Who is she?" intervened Rachel, managing to step firmly on Tim's toe as she took the file out of his hand and stepped past Rudic. She looked at the woman in the picture with some curiosity before handing over the file to Art and accepted the other one in return, stepping back (in between Tim and agent Rudic) to open it and very aware of Tim's eyes over her shoulder.

"Tony Arnold's niece – Marion," Rudic continued in an instructive tone after a pause in which he convinced himself that he'd seen nothing more than a mocking glint in Tim's eyes and Weatherby sat back. "A little domestic disaster (3) if ever there was one. Army brat – her father was in the Australian special forces, died in a training accident when she was ten. Mother went off the rails then – drugs, shoplifting and prostitution. Girl followed her for a bit – only went to school to get suspended, got lifted for all sorts of minor crimes; shoplifting, break and enter, affray, drug related stuff. Mother never got her out of trouble, it was always Sergeant this or occasionally Colonel that who bailed her out. Mother got put away for some time when she was about thirteen – court ordered her put into foster care, but the Regiment closed ranks – literally took her into the barracks until the mother was out. She straightened out from then – the mother was in an out of gaol until her death – the kid spent more time in the training field than anywhere else except maybe school. She's a smart little cookie, up in the top five in most subjects – excelled in languages – at last count she can speak five."

"Including French," noted Weatherby ominously.

"She came over to Canada to live with her uncle after her mother died," continued Rudic. "Started to help in the printing business by taking photos for him – crazy stuff, under waterfalls, hanging off cliffs, climbing up to the top of trees – he printed them directly and made a fortune. He opened a business in New York, same sort of thing, and sent his son Craig to run it. She helps out there occasionally but for the main she stays with her uncle in Toronto."

"And why is Miss Arnold a concern to the FBI?" asked Rachel, holding the pages firmly in her hands even though she could feel that Tim had finished reading and was waiting for her to flip over.

"Because she also runs her uncle's security, and has a significant input into her cousin's" answered Rudic, giving her a glance. "Which as you can see," he nodded to Art and Raylan who were looking over the first part of the file, "is a very significant issue."

"How can you have all this on him and they not be behind bars?" demanded Art.

"Because it is all supposition and unsubstantiated," replied Rudic. "We _know_ they're doing it but there is no proof. We have wire taps on their phones, but they change their cells more than once a day, we have a trace on the internet sites, we watch their accounts – they just doesn't make mistakes." The agent's frustration was palpable.

"So what does Miss Arnold do – as part of the security?" asked Raylan, glancing once at Tim and Rachel, reading the other file. Tim was almost on top of Rachel, his hands were clenching on his forearms as he waited with poorly disguised impatience for Rachel to turn the page.

"Outwardly? Close security for her uncle mostly," replied Rudic. "She's sixth _dan_ in ninjutsu, teaches classes once a month in Toronto but doesn't compete. She holds a Class D gun license in Australia – must have accessed it through her military contacts – and the Canadians recognise it (4) so she carries a handgun around Toronto. She shoots regularly at a local range; we suspect very well but her scores are never recorded. She has no gun license here in the States and we've had in the lockup on a couple of occasions – she always refuses to talk to us, has a sleep in the cell until her uncle's lawyers have made mince meat of the arrest and she gets out. But she does also design his overall strategy – she is the one who interviews the household and shop staff, she arranges the flights when he comes to New York to visit Craig, she choreographs his routes to and from work. She put together Craig's team and takes point whenever she is in New York. She's killed three people but the Canadian system judged them as self defence – which," he admitted grudgingly, "they may well have been."

"So perhaps you can see Chief why we are so interested in the fact that someone from the Kentucky Marshal's office has shown interest in _both_ these files at almost the same time?" Weatherby leaned forward. "The thought that Marion Arnold could be The Serpent is a tantalising possibility."

"Well I can imagine that such a possibility would get you a little hard," agreed Art and closed the file. "However I don't think any of my Marshals can help you – can you?" he looked at Raylan who shook his head.

"But – you did a search for The Serpent," protested Weatherby.

"I did a search for a French red head with a snake tattoo," replied Raylan precisely. "On the information of someone I should have known better to listen to."

"Who?"

"Boyd Crowder," replied Art. "You'll have a file. Local kingpin down in Harlan and Raylan's sometime friend, sometimes enemy."

"Not sure which one at the moment," added Raylan helpfully. "He suggested that she might be taking a shot at me."

Weatherby frowned. "Any idea why?"

"Oh Raylan has a wide and varied list of people he has pissed off," said Art cheerfully, ignoring the wounded look Raylan gave him. "Hell – it could be Crowder himself!"

"They would have to be connected and be well resourced to be able to afford The Serpent," observed Weatherby. "I'm going to need to talk to this Crowder."

"Be my guest – be sure to let him know where you got his name," smiled Art. "Amanda..."

"Amabel," corrected Rachel.

"Amabel up at that front desk can give his address," finished Art, standing as Agent Weatherby stood.

"Now just wait a minute," exclaimed Agent Rudic, still seated. "None of that explains the internet search on the Arnolds."

Art glanced at Raylan and received a wide eyed look. His own soured but he turned back to Rudic, "maybe someone just checking out the calendars for sale?" he suggested, moving past Raylan and opening the door. "There were some pretty pictures there."

"I can trace that IP address further," said Rudic in a threatening tone.

Art gave him a smile. "You do that then why don't you – let me know so I can put my own order in."

Left with no-where to go, except out the door, the two agents did so, Weatherby with a sense of purpose and Rudic unhappily.

Art watched as they paused at Amabel's desk and gave her a nod when she looked his way. "No," he said as Raylan made a move towards the door. "You can wait just there." They waited in silence for another few moments while the FBI agents were given the information, then Art gave them a wave as they went out the outer door. He waited another couple of moments then closed his door again. His facial expression changed somewhat and he looked over at Raylan as he opened his drawer and extracted a bottle and a glass, pouring himself a very generous nip and drained it. "Now tell me Raylan that I didn't just lie to our federal colleagues when I said that none of my Marshals know Marion Arnold."

Raylan grimaced.

"When you say 'know'," mused Tim slowly, staring at the ceiling with his head against the window. "Do you mean 'have an understanding of a person' or do you mean in more a biblical sense?"

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(1) Twins

(2) The Usual Suspects

(3) Walter Goggins' line in the Bourne Identity

(4) Have no idea – but Australians and Canadians generally get on well (the whole part of the monarchy but not really thing I suppose) so let's just run with it.


	11. Chapter 11

OK – who is Jen? You've been outed, I know you're there!

I don't know that I have adequately described the house for the events in this and the next chapter – imagine it as a rectangle (longest side parallel to the road) with a porch that takes up half of the front portion of the house – so there is a room (with a window) looking onto a porch with a door into the house on the inside corner, with another front room (and a large window) taking up the rest of the house – the side wall of this bounds the porch. There are neighbours both sides and behind – but across the road are forest and mountains. Clear as mud? Good. Let's get this party started shall we?

Chapter 11

There was absolute silence, Rachel moved away from Tim to prop her hip against Art's desk. Tim lowered his eyes back to the room, seeing three pairs of eyes fixed on him: Art's shocked, Raylan's slightly appreciative and Rachel's worried.

"At the risk of my head exploding, (1)" Art said slowly. "I'm going to ask that you clarify that statement Tim." He took a breath. "When you said you 'know' Marion Arnold – which definition were you referring to?"

"Either: both I suppose," replied Tim reflectively. "Although apparently the second understanding is more complete." He paused for a moment. "She had a tattoo of a snake on her ankle."

Art poured himself another glass and drained it and Raylan shoulders abruptly stopped shaking.

"You see what you did?" demanded Art, looking at Raylan. "He was a perfectly good deputy before you got here. You've been here what? Less than a year and look what you've done. You've broken him. Rachel – tell me that you're not sleeping with anyone inappropriate? Witness, criminal, contract killer, protectee – you're not sleeping with Winston are you?"

Rachel raised a haughty brow that clearly said she had no time for his shit and looked at Tim. "So you met Marion Arnold? Here – in Lexington?"

Tim focused on her and nodded. "Thursday night," he replied. "At a bar." He caught Raylan's expression as he remembered Tim declining his invite for a drink after work. "I'd noticed her; it was hard not to, especially in that bar. She'd noticed me too but made no move to talk to me. Then the rednecks started annoying her – so I strapped on my cape and rescued her," he said it with some sarcasm – her file showed to the infinite extent why she hadn't needed that _although he had perhaps saved _their_ lives_. "One thing led to another and we went to a motel together."

"Which motel?" demanded Rachel, pen and paper in her hand.

Tim shrugged, "some dive on Kingston – has a purple flower out front."

"She target you?" asked Art keenly, his head back in the game, as Rachel's brow rose at the address.

"It did cross my mind," admitted Tim. "But if she did – she's a damn good actress. I could swear that she didn't know that I was a Marshal until the next morning."

"Did she ask you anything in particular," asked Rachel.

"We didn't talk that much actually," admitted Tim and Raylan laughed, getting a glare from both Rachel and Art and waving his apologies (albeit without real conviction).

"And Friday night?" pressed Art. "It was her I presume?"

"We met at the same bar – not by design. The phone number she had given me didn't work – I went to the bar just on the off chance – she was coming out as I came in. Maybe she'd gone to meet me and given up or changed her mind – she said she'd had a run in with the same rednecks."

"Same motel?" asked Rachel.

Tim grimaced. "My place."

"You took her to your house?" Raylan's eyes widened. "Violets," he said suddenly and Art looked at him strangely. "Smell in the shower," he explained.

Tim smiled slightly _first freesias, then violets_. "She is apparently a fan of flowers," he nodded. "I left her there Saturday morning too," he added.

"Alone? At your house," Art sat up straighter. "Did you have anything at home?"

Tim shook his head. "Nothing current. Some cold cases – that's about it. Didn't look like there was anything touched," he added. "With the exception of the fridge and the pantry," he noted wryly.

"She did that?" Raylan's brows rose. "Filled them with food," he added for Art's and Rachel's benefit.

"But she had your phone," said Rachel.

Tim nodded. "Only while I had a shower. She said that she didn't do anything else."

"And you believe her?" Art was slightly incredulous.

Tim shrugged, _funnily enough, he did. _"She told me all of that," Tim pointed to the file still in front of Art. "She didn't lie to me."

"She told you that she was a contract killer did she?" snorted Art.

"Well," Tim smirked slightly. "That's more of an omission than a lie – isn't it?"

Art rolled his eyes, looked at the bottle and decided against it, sighing. "I suppose we'd better get the FBI back in again."

"Ah let 'em have some fun with Boyd," Raylan waved the idea away. "Or let Boyd have some fun with them – whichever way works better for you."

Art frowned at his most senior but loose cannon deputy, but then looked up at Tim – his quiet, conscientious deputy. "I suppose it won't hurt to let them go down to Harlan first – while we try and sort this mess out." He watched Tim's head go down a little and his voice was gentler when he said "Whatever this is."

Three pots of bad coffee later – Art having recovered from his shock and remembering that it was well before noon – Raylan pushed back from the conference table and stared in disgust at the kaleidoscope of paper. "I got nothing," he said in disgust.

Tim leaned forward, resting his head on one hand and pursed his lips. "That's because there is nothing here," he said and put the photo he held in his other hand on a pile.

"Tim – what are you doing?" asked Art, looking across the table.

Tim lifted his head a little and then pointed to the three piles that he had re-arranged The Serpent's file into. "Hers, not hers, not sure," he pointed.

"How do you figure that?" asked Raylan, leaning forward to grab the 'not hers' pile.

"Someone who is sixth _dan_ ninjutsu doesn't need to hit someone with a brick eight times," replied Tim dryly. "Nor does she remove the fingerprints and head from a body – what's the point of killing someone if you can't prove to your client that you did the job?"

"Maybe she used the fingers and the head," suggested Raylan, throwing back down the pile with a grimace.

Tim shrugged. "Not her style." He toyed with his phone, dialling the number that had been dialled ten times in the last few hours. Her voice echoed through the room 'Sorry but I'm not available...' before he cut the connection.

"She's not going to answer Tim," observed Rachel, still sifting through the papers from the other file and not bothering to look up.

"She's got to surface sometime," Art replied for him. They had already set up a trace on the phone – but so far nothing.

Rachel looked up. "She's made us Chief, she knows we know."

"How could she know?" demanded Raylan.

Rachel raised a brow. "You really think all of this," she indicated the table, "happens without someone on the inside?" She snorted. "I bet she knew before we did that those FBI agents were on their way down here – that's why she's not answering the phone," she glanced at Tim before turning back to the page.

Tim frowned _something about what Rachel had said..._

"Is there _any_ chance that Miss Arnold is just down here taking photographs like she told Tim?" asked Art, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. "It is a legitimate aspect of the Arnold business isn't it?"

Tim sat up, still frowning and looking, but not seeing, the papers in front of him. "I did see photos," he started slowly.

"Chief?" they looked up and Amabel smiled at them. "I've just dropped the mail on your desk."

"Thanks Amanda," said Art.

"Amabel," whispered Raylan.

"Er Amabel," corrected Art and stood, walking into his room.

"Was that information what you were after Deputy?" she said softly.

Raylan reached out with a long leg and nudged Tim; he looked up and blinked. "Thanks Amabel – it was."

"Anything more you want me to do?" she asked.

Tim shook his head, frowning at the table. "No thankyou Amabel," said Rachel and the blond nodded, retreating from the doorway. "Really Tim!"

"What?" he looked up at the chastising tone.

Rachel rolled her eyes and stood, taking the piece of paper with her to her computer. Raylan chuckled silently to himself for a couple of seconds, and then sobered, watching his colleague.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked. Tim looked up and he clarified. "Why'd you get Amabel to do an internet search on Marion?"

"Because it would be illegal if I was to use my special Marshal powers," returned Tim lightly.

Raylan wasn't about to let him off that easily. "A drop dead gorgeous woman picks you up at a bar, sleeps with you – twice – cooks you dinner and you do a background search on her?"

"My Spidy sense was tingling (2)," Tim tried another light approach.

"Something wasn't right?" prompted Raylan, not giving up.

Tim sighed. "No Raylan, something wasn't right."

"Because she was drop dead gorgeous?" teased Raylan, but with a hint of persistence that made Tim sigh again.

"Because she could drop a 240 pound redneck without raising a sweat, because she looked right down the barrel of my gun and didn't blink. Because on the anniversary of the worst day of my life I meet a woman who isn't scared of me, who isn't after a cheap thrill with the dangerous soldier boy, who doesn't want to fix me, who did more than listen, who could understand." Tim's reflective voice changed to one of bitterness. "Who knew – all I needed to do was look on bodacious contract killer dot com to find my perfect match."

"What anniversary?" asked Raylan, all joking gone from his tone.

"The day my spotter got killed," replied Tim dully, not mentioning the medal.

"That was why you didn't wear your dog tags?" asked Raylan quietly and saw the slight look of surprise. "You changed shirts here the next morning – I do notice some things." He paused, "I would have gone for a drink with you."

"I wasn't planning on being much company Raylan," snorted Tim. "I was drinking myself into a stupor."

"I can handle that," said Raylan.

Tim looked up, the pain almost but not quite hidden in his eyes, just as Rachel walked back in. "What and miss out on all of this fun?" he quipped lightly but Raylan recognised the technique and held his gaze until there was an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.

"Damn," swore Rachel, tossing the piece of paper back to the table.

"Something wrong?" asked Raylan, noting that Tim had closed back down again and was staring at the 'hers' pile.

"I thought I had it," said Rachel and suddenly had both their attention. "Well you said you met her Thursday? The day that you had settled Winston into the programme? The Chief said that Winston is hiding something, I thought perhaps..." She shrugged as they looked at her in confusion. "Tony Arnold has nothing electronic," she explained further.

"_Phones are for ringing people, cameras are for taking photographs and the postman is for delivering mail," she said instructively and shook her head a little. "My uncle has the most up to date printing equipment – my camera is state of the art – but he will not send an email." _Tim smiled slightly but turned his attention back to Rachel.

"The website for the Toronto business is pretty simple – it has contact details and a gallery of some of the photographs. There is no 'ask' ability, you can't order anything on line – you have to fax or send in an order form. There are no banking details – you either pay by cash or by cheque. Craig Arnold on the other hand," she picked up the photo of him. "His website is state of the art, orders, prints, interactive cells, Facebook, Twitter – the whole thing. I bet whatever records he has are electronic and I thought perhaps Winston may have stumbled onto them."

"You asked him?" Raylan straightened; an interested expression on his face.

"I did," nodded Rachel. "He said he had never heard of the Arnolds."

"What're the chances that he's lying?" asked Raylan, looking to Tim.

"Probably fair – but she can't have been in the 2nd car," Tim replied. "She has an air tight alibi," he added dryly as Raylan raised a brow.

Raylan grinned and even Rachel cracked a smile. "Still – it might be worth a drive," suggested Rachel.

"What's worth a drive?" asked Art, walking back into the room and carrying a large yellow envelope.

"Rachel thinks Winston may be able to help us with this whole ... thing," said Raylan.

"As in tell us something or being the actual target?" asked Art.

"Well he can't be the target can he?" asked Raylan, looking to Tim. "She's been down in Harlan all weekend – why would she wait?" he frowned. "Tim?"

Tim however was staring at the envelope in Art's hands – a large CM emblazoned on it.

"_You really think all of this happens without someone on the inside?"_

"_Well howdy – name's Sherriff Rollins"_

_It was a large envelope, almost an inch thick – one of those used to transport documents between departments of large organisations – he could see 'SR' at the bottom of the list._

"_This is my favourite," she said as a photograph of a bright red cardinal came onto screen. It was perched on a slender branch, light green growth visible on the tip – a pale blue sky behind it and looking straight at the camera. "Little bugger eluded me for a couple of hours, flitting back and forth between the tree branches, hardly staying still long enough to be able to aim, let alone actually taking the shot. I'd given up actually – and then he just propped – turned around and looked at me," she smiled and the camera flicked off. _

"Oh shit!" Tim stood up abruptly. "She's a sniper and Winston _is _the target."

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Art was convinced more by Tim's conviction than the 'evidence'. The initials on the envelope was thin proof of Sherriff Rollin's involvement, and therefore the connection with Winston, and the photo was even thinner proof that she was a sniper, although Art agreed that there was no way she could have got a shot of a tree with the green growth this late in the season and he understood that only someone who climbed very high up a tree or with a powerful scope could have captured that photograph. Tim couldn't explain the second car or why, if she was indeed targeting Winston, she hadn't already taken a shot – although Tim did observe that Winston seemed allergic to sunshine and she probably hadn't had an opportunity. Rachel rang Winston while Tim and Raylan were strapping on their vests and gathering a small arsenal, including Tim's rifle, and warned him to stay indoors and away from the windows, not to answer the door unless it was one of them. She grabbed her own stuff while they booked out a car, meeting them outside the building.

"I'll let the State Troopers know what's going on," advised Art. "I'll also call the FBI and ... hell I don't know what I'll tell them yet. Bring him back here and I'll organise the transfer."

The drive was made in record time, Rachel suffering the most in the back seat on the bends through Harlan but it was all quiet when they pulled up to the house. Raylan parked the car but left it running, casting his eyes around the area and finding it quiet except for a neighbour a couple of blocks down gardening. He looked at him for a while, but there was no way that he could have been Marion in disguise so he turned away – and noticed Tim staring into the windows of the house while Rachel was knocking on the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Checking the trees," replied Tim.

"Why?" asked Raylan, turning his head to look at the hills behind them.

Tim sighed, turning his head. "To try and see if I could pinpoint her position without letting her know that I know."

"Oh," Raylan grimaced and turned back to the house. "Sorry bout that. You really think you could spot her?"

"With the sun where it is, it would reflect off the scope," explained Tim. "Of course, she's probably good enough to cover it but you never know."

"You reckon she'll be all camouflaged up and everything – wearing one of those silly suits?" asked Raylan.

"She knows I'm here," replied Tim dully.

"Coming out," called Rachel's voice and they both stepped up onto the porch and then turned back to face the outside, their hands on their guns. The door creaked open behind them and they heard the steps of Rachel and Winston.

"Up close Winston," instructed Tim, "keep your head down."

"Ok," Winston's voice trembled slightly, his bravado from the previous day gone.

Tim felt the man move into his personal space, almost too close – but when working against a sniper the margins of error were small. _Of course – he _was_ betting that she wouldn't just shoot through him_. Raylan moved in close at his side, slightly behind so Tim's gun hand was free to manoeuvre. He took a deep breath, "let's go," he instructed and took a step forward, Raylan shadowing him, Winston on his tail and Rachel bringing up the rear with a bag over her shoulder.

"Whoa – hold up," warned Raylan as he heard something, turning his head and frowning as he recognised the pickup making the noise. "What the hell is Boyd doing here?"

"Boyd?" asked Rachel, totally blind from her position at the back of the group. "Boyd _Crowder_?"

"Yeah," Raylan glanced at Tim with a puzzled frown as the pickup turned off the road and paused on the grass verge in front of the house.

"Don't look at me – he's your frenemy," Tim snorted, feeling very uncomfortable suddenly. He took another step to stand at the edge of the porch, noting another vehicle pulling to a halt on the other side of the road and a little past the house and another vehicle parking a few houses back down the road. "I don't like this."

"Me neither," agreed Raylan slowly. "Rachel – take Winston back inside."

Rachel moved quickly, grabbing Winston, who made a sound between a gasp and a whimper, and dragging him back into the house. The door slammed shut behind them.

Tim walked around the side of the car, resting one forearm on the hilt of his weapon and tucking the both thumbs casually in his belt as he planted a hip into the wheel arch of the SUV. He eyed off the two men that had exited from the vehicle across the road; both wore open plaid shirts over beaters and jeans as if they were locals, but there was something about them that didn't sit true. The driver waited for the passenger to come around the front of the car and then they walked casually forward. _Except they weren't so casual _he thought, noticing a slight stiffness in the way they walked until they reached the edge of the lawn, where they paused and offered Tim a nod. Tim offered a slight one in return.

The doors of the blue pickup opened and Tim's brows lifted as he saw Boyd in the passenger seat. "Well howdy Boyd, Devil," called Raylan from his position at the back of their SUV, its engine still humming, his jacket tucked behind his gun but his hand casually at his side. Devil he thought looked a little uncertain, perhaps a touch nervous. Boyd of course looked his normal nonchalant self, his teeth flashing in his typical wide smile.

"Raylan!" called Boyd, stepping out from behind the passenger door and walking to the front of the car. His eyes were calculating; he noted Tim's position and the position of Raylan's jacket and stopped just behind the nose of his truck. "I thought we agreed that you were going to stay away from Harlan for a bit?"

"Well you did suggest it," Tim heard Raylan acknowledge. "And I _did _think about it – but Art – well he suggested that I come down here and you know..." Raylan offered a shrug and Tim smirked a little.

Boyd offered another smile, flicking his eyes to the men standing to the side and slightly behind him and then to the deputy who was watching them.

"So what brings you to Redbud Boyd – it's a bit out of your stomping ground isn't it?" asked Raylan.

"I like to think that no part of Harlan is actually outside of my neighbourhood Raylan – having been born and raised here," replied Boyd. "But this party today is Devil's – I just came for the ride."

"Is that right Devil?" Raylan raised a brow, and Devil shuffled a little as he found himself the centre of attention.

Devil shrugged slightly awkwardly. "I was just showing Cal and Wayne around – they had a friend who has moved here recently and wanted to catch up with him."

"They do, do they?" mused Raylan. "Hey there again fellas," he nodded to the two men and Tim realised that these were the men Raylan had described as meeting at Audrey's.

"Hey there Marshal," replied one of them, moving forward. Tim tensed slightly, straightening. "What a coincidence that we run into you here."

"Isn't it just," nodded Raylan. "Who was it that you were looking for?"

"His name was Winston," replied Cal after only a quick glance at his partner, still moving forward. "Winston Anderson. Perhaps you know him?"

Raylan shook his head. "Sorry – afraid I don't. Do you Tim?"

"Nope," replied Tim without actually looking at Raylan, keeping his eye on 'Wayne'. "No Winston Anderson here."

"What a shame," added Raylan. "Looks like you've wasted your time fellas."

Boyd, who had been watching the conversation between the men closely, cleared his throat. "It seems that there's been a bit of a misunderstanding gentlemen – Devil seems to have obtained the wrong information," his eyes widened as Devil's mouth opened and it closed. "Why don't we leave the good deputies to their business?"

The man pulled a face. "But you see Mr Crowder," said the man, "I think the deputy _does_ know Winston. And for some reason he doesn't want Wayne and I to see him."

"Be that as it may Cal," returned Boyd with a sardonic edge. "It is still time to leave."

"You afraid or something Mr Crowder?" sneered Cal.

"Not afraid no," smirked Boyd, his eyes meeting Raylan's amused ones with a twinkle. "However I have no desire to get into a gun battle with Deputy Givens."

"Deputy Givens," repeated Cal, scratching his head. "Say," he pointed. "Are you the deputy that put down Tommy Bucks?"

_And there it was _thought Tim, recognising the point where the slight chance that this thing was ending well vanished. Boyd recognised it as well and took a step back; Devil seeing him move, retreated but Wayne took some steps to the right, making Tim rotate slightly to be able to keep watch on him.

Raylan tipped his head a little. "Yeah – that's me. You a friend of Tommy?"

"Nah," admitted Cal. "But there's a bit of an urban myth about the deputy that shot him."

"Oh – and what is that?" Tim smirked again at Raylan's casual tones.

"That you shot him even though your gun was holstered and he had his under the table," replied Cal.

"Sounds about right," Raylan pursed his lips.

"That's a pretty quick draw there Deputy," laughed Cal, looking to his companion and getting an obligatory laugh.

"Yeah – it is," nodded Raylan and met Cal's eyes, watching and waiting.

For three seconds there was total silence; the neighbour's dog started barking and then all hell broke loose.

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(1) Just for Sophie

(2) That's meant to be Spidy as in Spiderman


	12. Chapter 12

I am not entirely happy with the ending of this chapter, but there is only so much flogging a dead horse one can do so I am afraid you are stuck with it.

Chapter 12

"This is Deputy US Marshal Rachel Brooks," Rachel said tersely into the telephone. "Requesting assistance at 16 Blair Circuit, Redbud. Three plains clothes marshals and a civilian at the premises," she warned and received acknowledgement before hanging up the phone.

"They're here aren't they?" whimpered Winston from his position at her feet, huddled into the door frame.

"Who's here Winston?" she demanded, poking her head out of the door and into the hallway and looking at the front doors through which she could just make out Raylan's tones talking to the arrivals. There had been enough of an edge in them to make her dial 911; she wanted to call Art but she knew he would find out through the emergency channels and she was loathe to even partially tie her hands up any further. "You mean the Arnolds?"

"The Arnolds?" Winston sounded genuinely confused. "Why would they come after me?"

"So you do know them," she snapped, glancing down – if not for the severity of the situation she may have laughed at his look of consternation at being caught in the lie. "What did you do to them?"

"Do to them?" he repeated. "I didn't do anything _to_ them!" he exclaimed.

"So what did you do _for _them?" she asked, picking up on the way he stressed his words.

"I helped Craig set up his business in New York," he replied. "I designed his website, his electronic systems – got them going – made them hacker proof," he smirked.

Rachel closed her eyes briefly. "So you're the only one who can get into the Arnold's system?" Winston nodded. "Why didn't you tell the FBI about it?"

"Why?" he asked in genuine confusion.

"So they could build a case – get the Arnolds put behind bars," she returned acerbically.

"I would never do that," he shook his head. "Tony knows that."

"Then why is Marion down here trying to kill you?" she demanded.

"Marion's down here?" he repeated again – but in almost relieved tones and Rachel looked down at him again in total confusion.

The noise of the neighbour's dog barking sounded and Rachel's gaze snapped down the hallway. "Stay here," she instructed and took a step around the corner. Her eyes met those of the man in the process of climbing the back fence for perhaps half a second – she snapped her gun up the same time as he snapped his up but before either of them could fire a shot, he exploded.

Instinct made Rachel duck, but the explosion was controlled and although the kitchen window rattled, it stayed intact. The fence was another matter and there were thuds of wood, at least she hoped they were all wood, against the side of the house even as there were three gunshots at the front of the house. She covered her head as the small window in the front door was shattered by a bullet and Winston collapsed himself down into a smaller heap, moaning in fear. There was a sound of another explosion to the side of the house, then another on the other side– followed this time by a strangled scream.

"Rachel?" yelled Raylan as he moved backwards towards the porch.

Tim turned his head as he backed up along the side of the car – Wayne lay dead with a bullet hole between his eyes, his own gun some distance away from his hand, and Cal lay spreadeagled on the ground with blood still pumping from the bullet wound in his heart – the smirk still on his face. A movement caught his attention – a man standing out from behind a black towncar down the road – "Look out!" he yelled and opened fire, even though he knew the range was too far.

Raylan threw himself up onto the porch as the hail of bullets from the automatic rifle exploded into the side of the SUV where he had been. The metal pinged as the bullets ricocheted off the car body, the rear windows shattering.

Tim dropped to the ground, sheltering behind the tyre. "You alright Tim?" he heard Raylan call as the bullets stopped suddenly.

He did a quick inventory. "Yeah – you?"

"Yes – but what the fuck is going on?"

"No fucking clue," returned Tim. A movement to his right caught his attention and he lifted his weapon and fired – but the man had seen him at the same time and jumped back behind the house. He poked his head out and fired in return; Tim felt a bullet whistle past and lowered himself closer to the ground, conscious of keeping his body protected from the other shooter, firing back. The shots stopped. "Rachel?" he called out to Raylan.

As if to answer there was a flurry of bullets from the house, Rachel's gun sounding close. "Rachel!" yelled Raylan again.

"We're fine!" came back the yell. "There's intruders at the back of the house." Her gun fired twice to make her point.

Tim looked up from around the back of the SUV and caught Raylan's gaze. He nodded and stood up, firing his weapon at the towncar where the automatic fire had been coming from. His gunshots were loud in his ears and he hardly heard a scream of pain from nearby, Raylan yelling to Rachel that he was coming in or the shots that Raylan fired down the hallway as cover while Winston and then Rachel came out of the house. "No!" yelled Tim as Winston saw him next to the car and made a run towards him; there was a loud thwack, but no sound of a gun shot, as a bullet hit the post at the side of his head and he skidded to a stop. Attracted by Tim's yell, Raylan reached out a large hand and latched onto Winston's collar, dragging him back even as another pair of bullets thwacked into the post where his head had been, "keep your head down Winston!"

Tim spun on his heel and looked up into the mountains, trying to see where Marion was but he knew it was a slim chance. _Shit, shit, shit _he thought, knowing how fully exposed that he currently was _don't shoot me babe_, but pulled open the back door, reefed the back seat down and grabbed his rifle from the back. A bullet pinged off the metal of the car door and he dropped to the ground as the sound of the shot carried to him _that was too close to be Marion_ he thought and rolled over – a movement caught his eye and he sent a volley across to the neighbour's house where a figure was leaning; the edge of the house splintered under the impact of the bullets and he heard a cry as either a bullet or a splinter found its mark. His magazine clicked empty and he dropped it, reaching for his spare and slamming it into the gun with one smooth motion. "Raylan?" he called.

Raylan poked his head out from behind the side of the house and fired another series of shots towards the black town car and Tim ran out from behind the SUV onto the porch, carrying his rifle.

"Raylan!" called Boyd's voice. "I'd take it as a personal favour if you would stop shooting at us!"

Raylan looked at Tim with a frown, but Tim could only shrug as he pulled the rifle from its bag – he had actually all but forgotten about Boyd and Devil.

"Well you stop shooting at us!" Raylan yelled back.

"I can assure you Raylan, neither Devil nor I have been participating in this encounter," floated back Boyd's voice.

"Well get your friends to stop shooting at us," yelled Raylan back.

"Believe me Raylan – these men are not my friends," returned Boyd grimly. "And Devil and I will be having words about taking commissions from out of towners."

"You shitting me Boyd?" Raylan called out.

"No Raylan – I am not," came Boyd's reply.

Tim met Raylan's gaze and nodded once. There were many shades of grey to Boyd Crowder, but this was simply not his style. He leaned over to place the rifle in against the corner of the house, then took his handgun and nodded again to Raylan. "Ok," yelled Raylan. "We'll cover you!" Raylan stood and Tim stayed low – they both poked around the edge of the house and fired a series of shots.

Boyd crouched down and ran quickly from the front of his truck, coming around the side of the still running SUV and diving onto the porch underneath Tim's arms. "Devil!" he yelled.

There was a rapid set of single gunshots from closer to the house and Devil screamed – the gunshots stopped and he came barrelling around the edge of the SUV, limping badly with blood pouring from his ankle. He collapsed next to Boyd, moaning in agony and blood pouring out from his ankle which looked to be broken. Boyd swore and grabbed at Devil's sleeve, ripping it off and reaching for the ankle.

"Are we having fun yet Pan?" yelled a heavily Spanish base accented voice, there was a pause and then some laughter. "Hey Winston – you sad little fuck. Max sends his regards."

"Well you can tell Max to go fuck himself," screamed Winston, straightening his huddled form slightly. "I've got _protection_! You can meet him in hell!"

Tim clapped his hand, still covered in blood from helping Boyd wrap up Devil's bleeding ankle, over Winston's mouth. "Shut up Winston," he warned as there was the sound of more, slightly maniacal, laughter.

"Winston –I'm flattered, really – but please don't antagonise the men _shooting_ at us – ok?" Raylan added, moving away from the edge of the building. "Now who the hell is Max?"

Tim fired off a couple of shots around the corner.

"Winston?" Rachel nudged him.

"He's the head of a child porn ring," muttered Winston.

"That you just happened to find," blinked Raylan and Winston nodded.

"Why didn't you tell the FBI?" demanded Rachel, casting a glance sideways.

"Because I didn't have a death wish," replied Winston indignantly. "You should have seen who was on the list – there were police, judges, FBI – there were even a couple of senators. I told the FBI about the syndicate so I could get into the witness protection programme."

"So when you were looking through the list," said Tim blandly. "Did you happen to notice if there was perhaps a marshal?"

Winston nodded. "But not one of you guys," he assured them. "He was from Carolina – that's why I told the FBI I wanted to come south."

"We all use the same system Winston," Tim explained as Raylan groaned and rolled his eyes. "He found out that you were in Kentucky with the push of a button."

"There's a lot of money on that list," noted Rachel with a significant glance.

"_They would have to be connected and be well resourced to be able to afford The Serpent." _Tim remembered the agent saying.

"Hey deputy – Raylan is it?" called the voice. "You still there?"

"Who is he?" whispered Raylan to Boyd who turned to Devil.

"I don't know," replied Devil in a strained voice. "I only dealt with Cal and Wayne – I got ten men for them and showed them here. I never met the spic."

Tim met Raylan's eyes briefly. "Yeah – I'm still here," called back Raylan, moved back to his post against the porch wall. "But please– feel free to leave anytime you want to."

"Why would I do that?" called back the voice. "I have you outmanned and outgunned."

"Well I might not be the best at maths," drawled Raylan. "But I count," he glanced at Tim and Rachel and then added his own tally to the fingers that they held up, "five down – plus Cal and Wayne over there."

"Deputies!" warned Boyd and Tim spun; he saw the shadow in the window even as the chair came crashing through it – he fired three times as Rachel threw herself over Winston and the man collapsed over the window sill, his blood dripping down the wall.

"There's six," called Raylan. "Maybe there's a few more what with all those explosions earlier. Now if you were a betting man you'd be thinking that there's three armed Deputy US Marshals here against you and max of four men. I don't know about you, but those odds wouldn't be all that attractive to me – if I was you of course." He waited for a moment. "Now we can keep picking them off one by one before the Troopers arrive or you and your men can throw your guns down now and you can live out the rest of your life in a windowless cell."

"I'm going to live out the rest of my life on a beach in Hawaii," returned the voice. "Spending all of this money I get when I put Winston out of his misery. I tell you what though – you and your colleagues throw your guns out – I'll let you and Crowder walk away."

"I think you've just been fired Devil" Raylan noted lightly. "Can I have a few minutes to confer with my colleagues?"

"Why not," replied the voice graciously.

"We need to move," said Tim. "She's out there somewhere – moving to get a better shot. He's just keeping us pinned down until then."

"You know she's out there?" asked Raylan, more in hope than any real doubt.

Tim nodded. "Those were sniper rounds," he gestured to the post.

Raylan considered pointing out that Tim had been a clear target but decided that the sniper probably already had that figured out. "Any ideas how?" asked Raylan. He looked around, "there's six of us – Devil can hardly walk."

"We need to flush her out," replied Tim, pulling the gun bag over and pulling out his scope. "Once she's out of the equation our odds are much better."

"When you say we..." Raylan's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Do you think you can shoot her?" Tim looked up.

"Do you think you can?" returned Raylan pointedly.

Tim just looked back at him, his blue eyes cold. He _would_ shoot her without a second thought; not only was she a criminal but she was actively trying to kill his witness. He took that personally. _He would drown his regrets later._

"Ok – so what's the plan?" demanded Raylan, seeing the resolve and feeling his heart break a little for his friend.

"I'm going to go over there," Tim pointed to the car which Cal and Wayne had left on the road. "You know how to use one of these?" he asked Boyd and held out the spotter's scope.

Boyd's face grimaced slightly, but he reached out and took it from Tim. "I had occasion to use them once or twice in Kuwait," he nodded.

"You then need to give her a sniff at an opportunity," said Tim, turning back to Raylan. "She obviously can't see Winston where he is – you need to get him where she can see him."

"You're talking about deliberately putting the witness in danger Tim," snapped Rachel. They could hear the faint wail of sirens in the distance.

"We can't wait it out," replied Tim tersely. "The State Troopers will be sitting ducks – she'll just pick them off one by one. Our best hope is to move."

There was a thump above them and both Raylan and Tim reacted immediately, shooting rapidly through the roof while Rachel threw herself over Winston. There was a three second delay and the body rolled off and landed on the ground with a thud, obviously dead.

"Quickly," added Tim.

Rachel didn't look happy but she nodded. Tim tossed his weapon and last clip over to Raylan.

"Hey – Mr Shooter there near the fence?"

"You still there Deputy?" came back the voice, sounding slightly chagrined.

"That's number seven," announced Raylan.

"Keep low – zigzag but don't do it evenly," instructed Tim quietly under Raylan's voice, reaching over and taking his rifle in his hands. "As quick as you can," he added.

"You don't say," Boyd groused back at him.

Raylan reached out from behind the wall and let loose a series of shots; Boyd waited until the third before throwing himself off the porch. Tim waited until he was five paces in and then followed, ducking below the edge of the SUV and then accelerating past its nose – he heard the first bullet hit Boyd's truck behind him and jinked, taking three steps to the left before changing to his right, but he only took two steps and he saw the burst of dirt where his third step would have taken him; he bit back the curse _how stupid could he be_ he thoughtand then he jinked back to the left _just because she hadn't shot at him before_. A bullet shattered the rear window of the car before the sound travelled to him and he heard Raylan curse before breaking cover to release another set of rapid fire shots and drive the shooter back behind the fence. Tim threw himself behind the vehicle, breathing hard and Boyd clapped him on the shoulder.

"Tim?" yelled Raylan's voice in the silence as he stopped firing.

"Fine," returned Tim and lay down on the ground to aim at the shooter near the house – but whoever had been firing had realised his vulnerability and had moved. "Watch your back!" he called out. He turned back to Boyd who was already scanning the hills through the scope. "Up there," he indicated the western face of the valley ahead of them.

"How do you know?" asked Boyd, but changed the angle slightly.

"She told me," replied Tim and realised that Boyd was staring at him. "She watched the sun rise behind her over the mountain," he elaborated. "She's up there somewhere," he added half to himself and Boyd blinked and returned his eye to the scope.

"Here Devil," Raylan handed the injured man Tim's weapon. "Try to stay as close as you can."

Devil nodded, his face pale with pain.

"Ready?" Raylan looked at Rachel.

"As I'll ever be," she nodded and stepped forward, dragging Winston forward with a firm grip of his arm.

"Now the idea Winston is to pretend that you are vulnerable – ok, we've got you covered," reassured Raylan, ignoring Rachel's glare. "Keep your head down."

Winston nodded miserably, casting one look out into the mountains before Rachel's hand pushed his chin to his chest and Raylan's hand on his belt was pulling him forward.

Raylan let loose with a volley of shots as they stepped onto the ground, heading for the back passenger door of the SUV – but there was a sickening thud of bullet through flesh and Rachel screamed in pain before he was three steps out of shelter and his steps faltered.

"Go, go, go," she ordered, still running next to Winston with her hand on his head but with her left arm hanging uselessly.

There was another thud and Winston staggered – Raylan took a firmer hold of his belt and dragged him. "Devil!" he yelled and heard Devil firing Tim's gun, reaching out for the door handle and throwing Winston into the footwell of the car. Metal shrieked as a bullet after bullet tore through the roof of the vehicle and Winston yelled out again, covering his head with his hands as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

"There, there! There's a muzzle flare," exclaimed Boyd. "39 degrees east, I'm going to guess just a touch more than 45 degrees elevation," he reported. "On that rocky outcrop – still shooting."

Tim half closed his left eye as he looked through the scope, distancing himself from the sound of Rachel's pain, the shriek of metal as the SUV was torn apart by bullet after bullet, Raylan's and Devil's ineffectual shots as they returned fire, Winston's whimpering. He heard only his breathing as he tracked across the mountain, peering through the trees and vegetation, trying to make out the features that Boyd was rattling off.

Then he saw her.

He took in all the details in an instant; she _was_ camouflaged, he could see her face was covered in paint, and there was enough foliage around her to tell him that she was wearing a Ghillie suit. Her rifle too had been camouflaged, there was no glint off the metal and there was netting and foliage along the barrel that he could see pointed in their direction.

He fired. Without second thought – he had been trained to do what he was ordered, not to second guess, and it enabled him to distance himself from the pain he was feeling, the memory of her naked body writhing under his, her smile as she made a joke, or her eyes widening before she laughed in appreciation of one of his.

Even as he depressed the trigger he saw her moving, throwing herself backwards and to the side. He saw the explosion of rock and dirt as the bullet impacted where she had been.

The rifle's retort was loud in the silence and it echoed around the hills for a couple of seconds before fading. "Tim?" he heard Raylan call out.

"Move," he called back, still squinting down the scope, examining the rocks. "See anything?" he asked Boyd, hearing the doors shut on the car, the engine noise alter as Raylan hit the gas and the noise of the tyres on the gravel of the road.

"Nothing that's moving," replied Boyd, his one eye squeezed shut as he stared up through the scope. "You think you got her?"

"No," said Tim baldly. "Fuck," he swore and lifted the rifle up as the SUV reversed up to their position, Raylan driving with Rachel in the back seat over Winston and Devil in the front seat.

"Get in!" yelled Raylan. Boyd grabbed the door handle and slid over into the middle of the back seat. Tim slammed the door behind him. "What the hell?!" Raylan swivelled in his seat to look at Tim.

"Go – get them out of here!" yelled Tim, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder and firing at the figure, now rearmed with an automatic weapon stepped out from behind the house. "Go!"

Raylan hit the accelerator, the tyres screaming in protest at the sudden pressure and the SUV sped down the road. Tim threw himself to the side behind the other vehicle as the automatic fire was directed towards him, rolling beside the tyre and shooting from underneath the vehicle. He heard a scream of pain and poked his head out, getting a glimpse of the figure running towards the forest before another burst of automatic fire, clumsily fired over the shoulder but still dangerous, made him seek cover again. He gave it a moment and then looked up again, seeing the figure dart in the trees, f_uck_ he thought and jumped up to follow.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Apologies for the derogatory term.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Tim backed off the pace as he entered under the trees, suddenly realising how thin the line was between bravery and foolhardy –and that the definition was often only made after the benefit of hindsight. His instinct to follow had been based on his desire to protect his colleagues and Winston but he _could_ mount a logical argument if required: they didn't even _know_ what the Mexican looked like, let alone know who he and with the contacts working against Winston it wasn't beyond belief that he would try again. So the best chance they had of stopping him was to catch him now. However in the dappled light of the forest, areas shrouded in shadows and almost unnaturally quiet Tim was aware that he was at a disadvantage.

The analytical part of Tim recognised that even if he hadn't followed the Mexican he wouldn't have jumped into the car anyway, despite whatever Raylan had to say. He would have been climbing the mountain towards where he had last sighted Marion. She was as much as, or even more, of a danger as the unknown Mexican; maybe they knew who she was and she was (for the moment at least) at a disadvantage on foot but he knew that she might just slip away and they would never catch her.

He wanted to catch her. But it would have to wait.

Tim listened for a couple of seconds, taking in a deep breath and willing his heart to stop thumping in his ears and looked beyond the tree he was sheltering behind. He couldn't hear anything but a patch of red on a bed of leaves caught his eyes and he examined the area, noting the slight disturbance of the ground where the Mexican had run and apparently bled on. He checked the rifle was cocked and edged into the forest, moving sideways on his toes, keeping his eyes in constant movement as he looked ahead, around and behind him and followed the blood trail.

The blood spots grew slightly lighter but more constant as he followed, as if the Mexican had slowed the pace and was attempting to stop the bleeding. There wasn't enough to give Tim hope that he would find a body around the next tree but there was enough that he knew his quarry had to be getting weaker and would be looking for somewhere to stop. And then suddenly they did more than stop – they vanished. Tim stared at the ground, dropping to his haunches to look at the leaves, trying to see the signs, albeit faint, that he had been following. They were gone – there was nothing. _As if he suddenly started floating_.

Tim realised too late; throwing himself onto the ground and rolling to let off a shot at the body falling from the tree at him. The rifle's longer barrel however was at a disadvantage, taking too long to come around into a firing position at extreme close range – the kick to the barrel made it discharge as it flew out of Tim's hands. The automatic rifle was aimed straight at his head and slowly Tim lifted his hands. _Fuck_.

"Who the fuck are _you_ gringo," demanded the Spanish voice behind the gun; he was a small man, dark hair curled tightly on his head with heavy features. His collared shirt and slacks looked the worse for wear and there was a blood patch in his side – he held that with one hand but the second hand was not wavering as he pointed the gun directly at Tim's head.

"Deputy US Marshal Timothy Gutterson," replied Tim. "And you are?"

"My name is Miguel Moreno," he replied importantly.

"Is that meant to mean something to me?" Tim quirked a brow.

Miguel snorted. "No Deputy – but I like my victims to know the name of the man who killed them."

Tim saw the intent in his eyes and rushed into speech. "What – you're not even going to let me say goodbye to Marion?"

He had no real plan in mind when he said that, only an intention to stall and delay the inevitable, for there was no doubt that Miguel was just about to kill him without any further ado. What he could possibly say to Marion at this point of their relationship _i.e. after they had both tried to kill each other_ was beyond him. However the suddenly arrested expression on Miguel's face suggested that he had just found the jackpot.

"You know _Marion_?" asked Miguel, motioning Tim to his feet.

Tim tipped his head, a slight smirk crossing his lips despite himself. "It does depend on one's definition of 'know'," he admitted wryly as Miguel (_very efficiently_) patted him down and came up empty for weapons. "She didn't mention it?"

"No," replied Miguel slowly. "She didn't _mention_ it." He stared at Tim for several moments. "Why don't you tell me _cofrade_ – how do you know _Marion_?"

Something in Tim resisted, but he knew he had to justify his continued existence _survive, evade, resist, escape_. "We met at a bar – that first night when you were coming down from Huntington."

"You did, did you?" mused Miguel with an interested expression. "You are her Marshal contact then _si_?"

"Well there _was_ contact," Tim made himself smirk; however internally warning bells were going off as he deciphered Miguel's tone; he didn't sound like a man talking about his partner – and surely a partner would know how she had found Winston. The solution came to him; _Fuck_ he thought as he realised that Miguel and Marion weren't _partners_, that they were _competing_ for the hit. _Out of the frying pan into the fire _he sighed. "However no – I didn't help her find Winston if that's what you're thinking." _At least not deliberately – he would have to have his car checked for tracking devices._ _If he made it out of this alive._

Miguel smirked in response. "So you would like to see her again _cofrade_? _Si_? "

"Of course," agreed Tim honestly _although maybe not right now you murdering bastard. _"Wouldn't you?"

"Oh _yes_," Miguel nodded. "I would very much like to see _Marion_." His eyes narrowed and he gestured with the gun. "Call out to her _cofrade_."

Tim hesitated, understanding that he was now the bait in Miguel's trap for Marion – _only a mildly improved situation_. _Would she come?_ he wondered and knew the answer was yes – he just wasn't sure with what intention she would come.

"Now Deputy," insisted Miguel quietly, but intently.

"Marion!" called Tim half heartedly. The gun lifted and Miguel moved closer, but not close enough that Tim could see a successful disarming occurring. "Marion!" he yelled, louder this time and heard the sound echo off the mountains either side of them.

Miguel nodded in approval and looked around, apparently finding his surroundings unsatisfactory because he gestured with the gun again. Tim hesitated but grudgingly turned and walked up the valley's slight slope, turning his head to confirm Miguel was following because he couldn't hear anything. "Again _cofrade_," said Miguel after a couple of minutes. "We want to make sure that she can find us alright."

"Marion," yelled Tim, wondering what else he could say that would give her warning but not get him shot – he wanted to catch her, not have her shot but he was pretty confident that Miguel was the polar opposite.

"Again," instructed Miguel after a further minute of walking.

Tim ignored him. _There was no way_.

"I said _again_ Deputy – call out to her," insisted Miguel.

Tim ignored him, taking only a ¾ pace and feeling the distance between them close abruptly. He spun around, reaching out to grab the weapon – it discharged and his hands burned; he felt the whoosh of the bullets fly past his head and his ears exploded in pain from the noise. Then Miguel's elbow caught him in the face – he blinked away the involuntary tears and levelled a punch into the wounded man's side.

Miguel screamed in pain but launched a series of blows at Tim's head; Tim blocked them as best he could with his left hand, his right still wrestling with one of Miguel's for possession of the gun. The gun discharged again and the ground near Tim's feet erupted as a series of bullets struck the ground. Tim used his body to bump against Miguel – the man was more solid than suggested by his appearance though and Tim found himself being swung around, his own momentum being used against him. He held onto the gun as it came around with them, feeling it move under his continued force – then his head slammed into a tree.

The force wasn't enough to knock him out, but it was enough to make him drop the gun and he slid to the ground. Miguel stood back for a moment, breathing heavily, then lashed out with the gun, catching Tim across the brow. The blow was like a hammer and he recoiled, landing on the ground and seeing stars.

"Get up _puto_," growled Miguel, kicking Tim in the legs. "Get up," he yelled.

Tim slowly brought himself to his feet, standing (slightly shakily) and staring back at Miguel.

"Move!" ordered Miguel.

"No," said Tim evenly. Shooting, killing even, Marion himself while in the line of duty was one thing. Allowing her to be suckered in to be killed by Miguel was another.

"You wanna die – is that it _puto_?" spat Miguel.

"It happens to everyone," replied Tim steadily, his eyes not wavering as he stared into the dark eyes opposite him. "Today is as good a day as any."

Miguel blinked, then his sneer returned. "Hey Pan!" he bellowed, making Tim start just a bit, "You out there _puta_?" He was silent for a moment. "Come on Pan," he cajoled still at volume. "Come out and play – I got your boyfriend here!"

"She's not coming," said Tim. "She knows what you're doing and she's not playing."

Miguel glared at him. "I think you are right gringo." He shrugged, "so I won't be needing you anymore will I?"

Tim saw the gun go up as if in slow motion and his mind looked at, assessed and dismissed the options – at this range there was no way he was getting out of the firing line; at least five bullets would hit him somewhere and without any weapons he had no chance of retaliating enough that he could stop the killing blow.

Then suddenly Miguel was off balance – his mouth opened in a yell – and then suddenly there was a hole in his forehead.

Tim turned around; Raylan kept the rifle ready until it became obvious that Miguel wasn't moving and then he lowered it. "Chatty fella wasn't he?" he winked.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Almost three hours later Raylan had reclaimed his hat and pushed it back to scratch his head. "Prima cord – are you sure?"

The State Troopers were there by the time Raylan and Tim had walked out of the forest and there had been some excitement while trying to convince them of who they were. Boyd had driven Rachel and the SUV back to the house about an hour later; again there had been some excitement as the Troopers made a normally obvious assumption about Boyd – but Rachel had calmed them down. Tim had almost felt sorry for Boyd as he had watched Raylan march over to him to discuss the whole timeline of the day's events but for once it appeared that Crowder was blameless – Tim _did_ feel sorry for Devil, only imagining the discussion that was going to happen once the man had his ankle attended to and went home. Boyd amused himself for another hour giving his recollection of the gunfight to the Troopers and had then taken himself, and his truck, away – waving cheerfully to Art as he drove in.

"That's what the man said," nodded Rachel, her arm in a rough sling still holding the notepad. Her wound had been bound but blood was visible on the bandage.

"Tell me again why you are still here?" demanded Art, his mood having remained sour even as he had found that all of his deputies had survived, he was chewing on some of his angina tablets (1) like they were candy. "You were meant to be going to hospital."

"Nelson needed to get Winston under cover," replied Rachel absently.

"And the ambulance that met you on the road?" prompted Art

"I let them take Devil first," she added in the same absent tones, obviously paying more attention to something else.

"There is room for two in those things you know," retorted Art.

"There was a heart attack," she returned and Art threw his hands up in the air. "It doesn't make sense," she looked up at Raylan. "Why would they," she used 'they' as an acknowledgement that they still didn't know what had gone on, the CSU team was still deciphering the bullets and bodies, "booby trap the back fence."

"Maybe they thought we would run that way," shrugged Raylan, ignoring the 'you're telling me' comment from Art. "You think Tim?"

Tim looked over from where he was loading one of the State Troopers' rifles – it wasn't as good as his, but his own was going to have to be surrendered for the duration of the assessment of the shooting. In truth he wasn't paying much attention to the conversation; he had given his statement and identified the bodies that he was responsible for to the State Troopers and then repeated it all for Art when he had arrived. Raylan had done what he could for his hands, bandaging up his palms (leaving his fingers free) and put on balm so that the pain was down to a dull ache. There was a small butterfly bandage above his eye holding the place where the rifle had struck closed. "What?"

His three colleagues looked at him in silence for several moments.

Art was the first to speak in don't-mess-with-me-asshole tones. "You're not going up there Tim," Art's eyes narrowed as Tim's mouth set. "No, no and no. I want you to listen very hard Deputy Gutterson – NO."

"But..." started Tim, looking up at the mountain.

"She's gone Tim," said Rachel.

"And even if she isn't," Art inserted before sound could come out of Tim's mouth. "Then you still wouldn't be going up there after her. And you," he added in his best don't-argue-with-me tones to Rachel as he pointed, "are getting into _that_ ambulance and going to hospital!"

"Tim could find her," suggested Raylan. "You know those idiots from the FBI won't be." There had been some threats passed around from both the agents when they had arrived, not that long after the State Troopers. Tim had reluctantly pointed out Marion's sniper's nest and then watched as they, suits, loafers and all, started to trudge up the mountain.

"_No_ Raylan," Art started, somewhat unclearly but his next words clarified his intent. "If anyone is going up there after that psychotic bitch then it will be the actual not retired army, preferably after carpet bombing."

Tim smirked despite himself, but glanced up at the mountains again. _She had probably gone anyway. _

His phone started ringing and he picked it up off the car hood, glancing at it and freezing.

"Are you going to answer that?" asked Raylan after several rings.

"It's her," managed Tim, staring at the number.

"What?" Art was the loudest. "Are you sure?"

Tim nodded.

"So answer it," said Raylan. "She doesn't know!"

Rachel snorted.

"She doesn't know that _we_ know," insisted Raylan.

Tim was in agreement with Rachel _she knew_ but he pressed the green button; then pressed the speaker button so everyone else could hear. "So she lives!" he said jovially.

Art threw up his hands and Rachel shook her head, Raylan though grinned.

There was a slight pause and then Marion laughed a little. "Sorry – I only just got to the top of the hill and got all of those messages."

"Liar," he said lightly.

"OK," she admitted. "I have been a bit busy though and couldn't call you back earlier – I'm sorry."

"You're lucky the 1st Airborne was busy," he said.

"Are you ok?"

Tim's brows rose. "Why wouldn't I be?" he queried, wondering whether she was about to own up to almost shooting him.

"Oh – I don't know," she mused lightly, "five messages and fifteen missed calls." She paused. "I thought something must have been going on."

"Nothing wrong – just wanted to talk to you," he replied. "You get the shot that you were after?"

Raylan rolled his eyes – Art having stepped away to take the call that told him how the tracking on her phone was going. He waved his finger in the air _string it out_.

"Most of them," she replied in a slightly tight voice. "_Was_ chasing one of the local critters – bloody devil got away on me though."

"Did it just," Tim raised his brow. "You going to try again?"

"Maybe," she hissed. "Depends on orders."

Tim frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Why does anything have to be wrong?" she quipped, but still in the same tight voice. "Can't I just give my two night stand a call for the fun of it?" The effect was spoiled at the end as her voice almost collapsed into a groan.

"Marion!" he said sharply, looking to Art and still getting the same signal.

"I had an encounter with one of your local wildlife," she said, then took a deep breath. "A Timber Rattlesnake if I remember my research correctly."

"You're bit?" he demanded.

"Yup – down in the ankle, the irony alone is killing me," she said dryly.

"So ring 911," he ordered.

"And tell them what?" she asked.

His brows contracted. "Tell them you were bit," he replied. "Tell them where..." he stopped suddenly.

"And there we have the crux of the issue," she confirmed.

"You're lost?" he said flatly.

"It has been an exciting afternoon Tim," she returned with some spirit, "I got turned around once or twice and I've lost my map _and _my emergency beacon. I can tell you which way is north – but I have no idea of where the road is." There was a slight sound as she caught her breath. "I daresay it might be against the rules – but I was hoping that perhaps you could use your marshal powers and maybe triangulate my position of my phone?"

"We might be able to manage that," agreed Tim dryly, looking over to Art and getting a nod. There was silence. "Marion?" more silence, "Marion!"

"Hmm?" she sounded distant.

"Marion – we're coming now," he said tersely, turning at Raylan's hand on his arm and following him to one of the squad cars and getting into the passenger seat. Rachel was directing the paramedics back to the ambulance they had just got out of and Art was explaining the situation to the senior State Trooper. "You need to stay awake."

"You don't have to come yourself," her voice was slightly stronger. "I mean – I don't want to sound ungrateful..." her voice jagged again.

"It so happens that I'm in the area," he replied.

"What a coincidence," she murmured.

"Keep talking Marion," he said warningly after a couple of moments of silence, blocking out the sound of the radio giving Raylan directions but looking at him strangely when he turned the car northwest. Raylan shrugged and put the pedal down – the wail of the ambulance was faint behind them.

"Is there really that much to talk about?" she wondered quietly.

"We managed to find lots of things to talk about on Friday night," he replied.

"That's a lifetime ago isn't it?" Her tone sounded regretful.

Tim grimaced. "It does feel a little like that," he agreed somewhat tersely. The line crackled. "Marion?"

"I'm still here," she said.

_Fuck_ thought Tim, looking at the mountain the road was hugging. "I'm going to lose reception," he said. "You need to keep the line open though – ok?" There was silence. "Marion?... _Marion?_"

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

OK – so google tells me that _cofrade_ is one of the options for brother and _puto_ is the male oriented insult of whore (_puta_), sometimes used against homosexuals – which I find appropriate given the apparent 'ambiguity' that some people find with TG's sexuality.

(1) my interpretation of the tablets he popped after the slow motion chase of the bank robber.

Maybe a slightly gratuitous cliffhanger – but the next bit got away from me a little and ended up being a whole chapter in itself.


	14. Chapter 14

Sassy J kept me distracted from my S3 dvd set long enough to finish this chapter last night and Sophie1670 is on tentahooks – so have this one early for both of them.

Chapter 14

"Marion!" Tim all but ran up the last incline, leaving Raylan and the two paramedics behind him. "Marion!" There was a slight whistle to his left and he turned, spotting the figure on the ground at the base of a tree. "Here," he called to the others and quickly made his way to her.

Her hair had half fallen from its braid, there were leaves, twigs and dirt stuck amongst the escaped strands; her face and hands bore a suggestion of something on them, and he could see a swipe of green paint behind her ear. She was dressed in a shirt and jeans, one of the legs cut off above the knee and a remnant tied around the middle of her calf. There was a pair of knife wounds – one right across the top of her tattoo and the other just under the tourniquet (1); two puncture wounds were visible in the body of her snake tattoo _as she said – the irony was a killer_. Below the tourniquet her leg was swollen badly, darkly discoloured in splotches but the rest of her was pale.

"I told you to keep the line open," he chastised as he knelt at her side; he had spent the last ten minutes in the dark (figuratively anyway, although the dusk was fast approaching) because the traced signal had been lost.

"Sorry – battery died," she whispered as he picked up the phone from the ground next to her and pushed it into his pocket. "What happened to you?" she asked, eyeing off the damage to his face.

"Argument with a Mexican," he replied, glancing at her and seeing only a poker face. "Nothing serious." He eyed the bright red mark around her neck, the suggestion of a bruise on her face. "What about you?" he asked as he ran his hands down either side of her legs, detaching the still bloody Bowie knife from the sheath at her hip and tossing it behind him.

"Apart from the disagreement with the snake as to who was allowed to step where?" she raised a brow. "Ran into a stray piece of wire." He ran his hands over her torso, reaching over her to feel under her back. "Later babe," she quipped, smiling up at him.

Tim paused and looked at her steadily, watched the light in her eyes disappear as the smile dried up and then continued to search her, finding nothing more. He turned and nodded to Raylan who dropped his arm and the paramedics rushed over to her – Tim picked up the knife then stood and moved back a little.

Tim averted his eyes from her and glanced around, Raylan meeting his eyes in a puzzled shrug – they were nowhere near where Tim had shot at her. Tim looked behind them – although he could figure out where the house was he couldn't actually see it – there was no shot from where they were, not even close to where they were. _Had he got it wrong? Was she really only in Harlan to take photos? _He started walking around, looking for signs of where she had come from, of any of her gear.

"Crap," hissed Marion and Tim turned back to her just as she jerked up and dry wretched on the ground next to her. She lay back down again, pale with a sheen of sweat across her face and gritted her teeth at a wave of pain.

"When did you get bitten?" asked one of the paramedics, readying the dose of antivenin they had brought from the ambulance.

"About three hours ago," she replied in a strained voice, conscious that Tim was close by but realising that effective treatment depended on the truth.

Tim didn't need to see the look the two paramedics gave each other to know that that wasn't a good thing. "Why didn't you call me earlier?" he demanded, stepping back towards her.

Marion tipped her head back a bit to see him. "I would have liked to," she told him honestly. "But my mobile wouldn't work until I got myself out of the hole." A wave of pain erupted from her leg as the paramedic sliced through the laces of her boot and she stiffened in reflex, biting down so that only a groan escaped. She heard the movement and then she felt Tim's hand take her own – she latched onto it in desperation, trying to use his strength.

"Can't you give her something for the pain?" Tim asked, watching the colour drain from her face and wincing slightly from the pain of her pressure on his burns.

"Not until the antivenin has had a chance to work," explained the paramedic with sympathy. "Another hour – ok miss?"

"Peachy," she gritted out and took a breath as the extreme pain faded a little. She felt Tim's hand slip out of hers and she bit her lip, but then an arm came around her shoulders and she opened her eyes, opening her mouth to take some sips from the bottle he held at her lips. Despite being parched her stomach recoiled and she pulled away, thankfully he seemed to understand and he put the bottle down. She looked up into his face, "thanks," she said.

"For what?" he blinked, turning back to her and gently lowering her back to the ground. "For coming after you?" he said incredulously.

"I know it might make life more difficult for you," she winced at something the paramedic was doing and he picked up her hand again, squeezing lightly. "Some might suggest that you were not being professional."

Tim smirked a little – that had already been more than suggested, at volume, by the FBI agents.

"It was all unintentional Tim," she added earnestly and he focused back on her. "I didn't set out to seduce you just so I could use you." Her expression lightened, "I wasn't planning on being bitten just so you could come and rescue me."

He snorted and she smiled a little. He was silent for a few moments. "Am I going to be able to find it?" he asked quietly.

She stilled and swallowed. "Find what?" she whispered almost apprehensively.

_And he couldn't do it to her_ he realised, looking down into her wide brown eyes. He couldn't make her actually _lie_ to him. "The place where the snake bit you?"

Her lips tipped up just a little and she seemed to relax slightly. "I doubt it," she replied. "_I _would struggle to find it now."

"Alright Deputy," intervened the paramedics voice. "If you could move please?"

Tim stood, releasing her hand somewhat reluctantly and stepping to the side. He watched dubiously as the paramedics unfolded the stretcher and positioned it on one side of Marion. He looked over the side of the mountain that they had climbed.

"You're kidding right?" Marion asked, clearly having the same doubts as him.

"You can't walk miss," insisted one of the paramedics. "You'll die."

"If you try and carry me down that hill on _that_ we're all going to die," she said firmly. "Give me a hand up." The paramedic hesitated, glancing at his colleague. "Come on – you've got more of that juice haven't you?" She reached her hands up.

Tim sighed and turned around. "Raylan – heads up!" he called and tossed his gun and the sheathed Bowie toward him.

Raylan fumbled a little but managed to catch both of the items. "What...?" he started, looking over in puzzlement.

"Hang on," he instructed to the paramedics as they balanced Marion between them; he had a glance at her startled face and then leant over, planting his shoulder into her waist, wrapping his arm around her legs and upending her.

"Well this is romantic," she commented from about his waist.

"Keep her leg below her heart," instructed the paramedic.

Marion 'oophed' as he adjusted her, putting his shoulder more in her belly, making her slightly more unwieldly but keeping her leg below her heart.

"Are you going to be able to handle her all the way down?" asked Raylan, keeping enough distance that she couldn't reach any of the weapons he carried, although he doubted that she would have the strength left to do anything.

"Well she's no light weight," commented Tim, smirking at the faint 'my hero' from his waist, "but it's all downhill. Hang on," he instructed again and Marion's arms snaked around his ribcage, latching a hand around each wrist and locking down; she settled her head into the curve of his back. He nodded his readiness and the paramedics moved off, their gear over their shoulders and Raylan bringing up the rear.

The hill hadn't been the easiest to clamber up, but it had been the point at which the road was closest to where the signal had been registered. Climbing down was even harder, but Tim only had to see the paramedics lose their balance the once to know that he'd made the right decision. He kept one hand wrapped tightly around Marion's rear end and used the other to brace himself, sometimes on a rock or tree and sometimes on one of the others. She did her best to hold tight and keep her body close to his to maintain his centre of gravity – he felt the waves of pain as they wracked through her, her muscles tightening involuntarily. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his steps as smooth as possible; there was nothing else he could do. It took almost half an hour to get within sight of the ambulance, its door open with Rachel's foot dangling out the side.

He felt Marion's arms relax around his ribs suddenly. "Marion" he said, "Marion?" he repeated louder as her arms dropped from around him. "Marion!" he yelled over his shoulder.

One of the paramedics came forward, touching her neck. "No pulse" she reported. "Hurry – get her to the bus."

Tim all but fell down the last incline, Marion's hands trailing on the ground as he skidded down on his rear end. Rachel heard the noise and came out of the ambulance with her gun raised, but one look at his face made her holster it and throw open the other door. Tim climbed up through the doors and carefully laid Marion down on the gurney – her head lolled to the side and her arms flopped down: she was still, deathly still and his own heart stopped. Then the paramedics were there and he was being pushed back out of the ambulance. He watched as they took a pair of scissors and sliced open her shirt, the same scissors making short work of her bra and her clothes were pulled away. The pads were slapped down on her chest, "Clear" called one of the paramedics and there was a loud _whump _as the shock was administered.

"No pulse."

There was a whine as the charge was built back up again. "Clear."

_Whump_.

"Again."

"Clear."

_Whump_.

"Nothing."

_No_ thought Tim, _no_. "Come on Marion," he muttered.

"Clear."

_Whump_.

"Anything?" asked one paramedic, holding the paddles upright.

"Got her," nodded the other, her fingers pressed to Marion's throat.

Tim released the breath he had been holding and glanced over at Raylan as he laid his hand to his shoulder.

"We've got to go," instructed a paramedic, the other climbing through the front of the ambulance. "Deputy – if you'd get in?"

Tim twitched but remembered in time that she was speaking to Rachel. He held out his hand and Rachel took it, grimacing as her shoulder jolted as she stepped up into the back of the ambulance – she sat on the bench next to the paramedic, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. Tim looked at Marion, lying prone on her back, her shirt pulled over her chest enough to give her decency but making her look vulnerable.

"Cuff her," he heard himself say.

"What?" stuttered the paramedic, looking at Marion. "She's hardly in a state..."

"Cuff her," ordered Tim again and this time held out his cuffs.

"She's likely to crash again on the way," argued the paramedic. "We can't shock her if she's attached to the bed."

"Rachel has a key," replied Tim and took the issue in hand, climbing up onto the ambulance step and leaning over Marion. Her hand was limp in his; he had a moment of doubt and looked at her face, the cynicism in her eyes was closed off and she looked peaceful and harmless. A view of the figure in the Ghillie suit pointing a rifle at him flashed before his eyes and he hardened himself, turning back to her hand and snapping one cuff around her right wrist, and then the other on the rail of the gurney. "Watch yourself," he instructed Rachel, ignoring the look of contempt that the paramedic was giving him. "We'll be right behind."

Rachel nodded and took her weapon out of the holster; the paramedic making a disgusted sound. Tim climbed back out of the ambulance and closed the doors. The ambulance shuddered to life and moved off, pulling around the squad car and making off down the road at a decent pace.

"You ok?" Raylan asked quietly.

Tim swallowed. "Yeah," he nodded and turned, accepting both his gun and her knife back from Raylan.

"Where do you think she put the gun?" wondered Raylan as they walked back to the car.

"Somewhere she thinks I won't find it," replied Tim with an edge.

Raylan paused at the door of the car for a moment, a half smile crossing his lips before he sat down in the seat. He pulled the door closed with one hand and turned the key with the other.

Nothing happened.

Tim looked up and over at Raylan – both of them thought of the explosions earlier in the day. "Fuck!" they both said and threw themselves out of the car, Tim diving over the edge of the road and Raylan crossing the road to throw himself into the ditch where the road dug into the side of the hill.

Nothing happened.

Tim slowly poked his head over the edge of the road, looking at the base of the car. "I don't see anything," he called.

"If it was going to go boom it would have by now – wouldn't it?" called back Raylan doubtfully.

"Maybe," returned Tim. "Unless it's trying to lull us into a false sense of security."

They waited another couple of moments. Still nothing happened and Tim stood, brushing himself off as Raylan rescued his hat and brushed off the dirt. "You got any signal?" asked Tim, looking at his phone.

"Nope," replied Raylan with a glance at his and reached in and popped the hood.

"Oh shit!" swore Tim as he examined the emptiness that used to be the distributer cap.

"Oh shit!" repeated Raylan as he straightened out of the car, holding the radio in his hand, the cord hanging disconnected.

"Oh shit!" they said together as they both turned down the road where the ambulance had driven, long since out of view around the curves.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Rachel had closed her eyes and leant against the wall of the ambulance – the pain killer that the paramedic had given her had taken the edge off the pain from her arm and she was pleasantly sleepy. The sudden explosion underneath her woke her up both abruptly and thoroughly; she straightened, lifting her gun into readiness as the ambulance lurched slightly. She glanced at Marion but she was still, breathing steadily but not showing any sign of consciousness.

"It's just a flat," called out the driver and the ambulance slowed, moving to the side of the road as it did so. He pulled on the brake and opened the door, stepping out and closing the door.

It was quiet in the ambulance, only the three women's breathing sounding. Rachel frowned and adjusted her grip on her gun, tensing slightly.

There was a bang on the back door – Rachel held up her hand as the other paramedic moved to open it. "Sometimes the door catches from the outside," she reassured scathingly and reached forward to unlatch the door. It was reefed open suddenly and she fell out with a cry. Rachel lifted her gun and aimed it at the opening, leaning forward a little to see through the opening.

Marion's foot kicked, Rachel yelped as the blow caught her hand; her finger tightened on the trigger as the gun was propelled from her hand and the inside of the ambulance vibrated with the sound of the gunshot.

"Pan?" yelled a deep voice from outside.

"Hell deputy," cursed Marion, sitting up on the gurney with Rachel's gun in her hand. She put the other to her ear and grimaced in pain at the ringing in her ears and Rachel blinked. Marion became aware of her state of undress and let her ear go, dragging the two parts of her shirt together, the other hand pointing the gun steadily at Rachel. "Clear!"

The other door pulled open and a slightly weaselly looking man poked his head in, taking in the situation quickly with a grin. "Git out you bitch," he growled and grabbed Rachel's bandaged arm roughly to drag her out onto the ground.

Rachel cried out in with the pain in her shoulder and struggled to get to her feet. She stilled suddenly as a cold barrel touched her head – then a gun cocked.

"Blue," said Marion coldly and Rachel looked up. Marion eased herself off the gurney, Rachel's gun now pointed at the man and then lowered herself to the floor of the ambulance and swung her feet to the ground. She eased her weight onto her good foot, gingerly touching her bitten leg to the ground and grimacing. "You will not kill Deputy Brooks or the two nice paramedics who saved my life."

"But Pan?" protested Blue in front of Rachel, "she's seen my face."

"Well you should have worn a fucking mask then shouldn't you?" snarled Marion, glaring at him, her fingers tightening on Rachel's gun.

Rachel watched his face tense; then he swallowed and his eyes dropped. He lowered the gun.

"Deputy, I'm going to need your cuffs and that key please," Marion instructed, uncocking the gun and putting it on the floor of the ambulance behind her. "And...," she leaned forward, squinting slightly to read the name tag on the male paramedic who was kneeling with his partner in front of one of the tallest black men that Rachel had ever seen. "Jacob – I'm afraid that I'm going to need your shirt."

Rachel unhooked her cuffs from her belt and extracted her handcuff key from her pocket, handing it to Blue. He climbed up into the ambulance and came out with the handcuffs; Rachel frowned, trying to look at Marion's wrist as she pulled the paramedic's shirt over the ruin of hers. Marion caught her looking and offered her a cheeky grin, toeing off her remaining boot and sock.

"You're going to die without more antivenin," warned the female paramedic baldly from the ground. Marion cocked a brow and the man behind the paramedic pushed the gun he held into her back, Marion frowned slightly but the paramedic sighed, standing and climbed into the ambulance, handing out a trio of small vials.

"Such commitment to one's profession," remarked Marion idly to Rachel, taking the vials and hopping over to lean against the door of the ambulance, moving the gun along with her. "Thankyou... Cindy – but stay there please," she added to the paramedic, who sat down on the bench seat. "Jacob, Deputy – in here please." The second paramedic stepped into the ambulance easily and took Rachel's hand to help her up. "Now you can all make a happy circle please," continued Marion.

Rachel watched her left wrist being cuffed to Jacob's right one with Tim's cuffs, his right hand was then cuffed to Cindy's right with her own cuffs and then own her right arm was then stretched out and cable tied to the Cindy's left – _a happy circle indeed_.

"I'm going to leave these about half a klick (2) up the road," Marion held up Rachel's gun and the handcuff key. Rachel glanced down the road – Marion smiled again. "They'll be along shortly and let you loose I'm sure – but I'm counting on you to beat them to it Deputy Brooks."

"There's no coming back from this," said Rachel as Marion shut one door. "The FBI knows who you are now."

Marion chuckled. "The FBI know shit Deputy. I'm not afraid of them."

Rachel reached out her hand to stop the door closing, the paramedic grimaced as her hand was yanked with the motion. "We can protect you," persisted Rachel intensely.

"What? You think Deputy Gutterson will keep an eye on me?" mocked Marion.

Rachel bit her lip.

Marion started closing the second door and paused, leaning against the back of the ambulance. "In case you're wondering Deputy? I won't be looking to get rid of any witnesses – I'll deal with this mess another way."

Rachel nodded, understanding what is was she was just being told and wondering at the intensity in Marion's voice. _She cares for him_ she realised suddenly, watching as Marion opened her mouth and then closed it again. "We'll look after him," she said.

Marion looked up, her brown eyes meeting Rachel's for a moment and then gave a wry laugh. Then she nodded and closed the door firmly. The sound of the lock echoed through the ambulance.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

(1) Information that I accessed off the internet says that Marion's treatment of the bite was the exact WRONG thing to do – but there've been too many movies perpetuating the myth (if indeed the internet is correct) of the whole bleeding out the venom for me not to use it. Also – because we're a bit short on rattlesnakes here – the paramedic might not know what he's on about either.

(2) An Australianism – klick refers to a kilometre (1.6 of which are in a mile for you non-metric people)


	15. Chapter 15

So this chapter is a slightly different format – a bit of an experiment really. I wrote most of it concurrently with Chapter 12 and part of Chapter 13 and then wordsmithed it once I had it by itself - grew a little bit so make yourself comfortable.

Chapter 15

"Well fuck," Art leaned back in his chair, running his hands through the sparse growth of hair, looking at the two deputies slumped in chairs in front of him. "Is it tomorrow yet?"

Tim had another sip of Art's fine bourbon. _She had got clean away_ just as he had suspected. He and Raylan had made it to the ambulance; for a few moments they had panicked at the empty ambulance – they had shared a glance of foreboding. Then he had caught sight of a something curious and despite himself he had grinned, Raylan had saw the reaction and walked over with a puzzled frown, his expression changing into a grin as they watched Rachel and the two paramedics perform a synchronised dip to the ground at the side of the road. The group had tightened for a few moments and he had looked at Raylan with a raised brow – but as they had watched the group had broken up and Rachel had led the way back to them, carrying a set of handcuffs and apparently holding hands with one of the paramedics.

"She's gone," she had reported to them when she had made it back (and they had cut the cable ties on her other hand) then to Art via the ambulance's radio and then to the FBI as they had roared into the office sometime shortly before midnight.

_That_ conversation had gone as well as he thought it might, there had been allegations of collusion, corruption and downright negligence. Especially when he revealed the phone he had taken from her had no SIM card and was therefore useless. Tim had let it bounce off him, not engaging – he knew he had done nothing wrong (albeit perhaps ill-judged) and she had told him that she hadn't done it on purpose. The FBI agents had been incredulous when he had told them that, but both Raylan and Rachel had just nodded so Art had shut them down and they had eventually left the office in a high state of disgruntlement.

The State Troopers still had BOLOs out for Marion and the men Rachel had described her as being with, there were alerts at all the hospitals and clinics where she might have to seek medical assistance. But Tim knew that she wouldn't, those men had been sent to get her – one of them would have some type of medical training. They would just melt into the surroundings _hell they were probably already in Mexico_. He did have some hope of finding her car though.

Rachel suddenly appeared at the door. "You have to see this," she said and retracted, stepping into the boardroom.

"Really?" called out Art grudgingly but pulled himself to his feet with a sigh when she didn't answer.

The three men entered the boardroom, Tim pulling up his normal piece of wall and planting his hip on it and Raylan and Art sitting at the table, facing the TV which Rachel was turning on. She moved back, pointing the remote control. "I found this in my handbag," she explained. "It wasn't mine – so I had a look at it."

Art frowned and his mouth opened, but then a picture of a tree came up on the screen and he closed it. The picture changed to a small creek, bubbling over some rocks. Then it changed again to a view over the top of some mountains.

Raylan found his voice, "It's very pretty Rachel – but it is, what, close to 1.30am tomorrow and I for one would like to get some sleep."

"Wait," she ordered and he lowered his length back into the chair, exchanging a look with Art.

Tim's stomach dropped to the floor. "How did you get it there Rachel?" he asked in a slightly hoarse tone as a picture of a moon rising over the horizon filled the screen, bright yellow like a piece of aged cheese.

"I think it dropped into my bag in the ambulance," she replied. "Maybe when they cut her shirt off."

"What?" demanded Art, looking from one to another. "Would you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"It's her camera," said Tim as he looked at the screen filled with an eagle plunging to the ground.

"Whose?" blinked Raylan.

"Marion's," replied Rachel when Tim didn't. She pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.

"I don't see the significance," started Art after looking at the changing photographs for almost a minute. "We know that she took photos..."

"Wait," this time it was Tim who snapped the order, his eyes intently on the screen, and Art blinked.

Suddenly the image was moving – a dark sedan rolling along a dirt road.

"We like to party," sang Marion's voice and the view zoomed into the side of the car – the windows shining back black without allowing any vision of inside the car. "We like, we like to party."

Raylan pointed at the screen, clicking his fingers, "That's... that's... who is that?"

"Us" replied Rachel.

"Venga boys," said Tim with a smirk and Raylan nodded, lowering his hand – Rachel rolled her eyes.

The view followed the car to the house, and they watched it as it paused and then reversed back into the drive. The driver's door opened and for a moment the view paused on Raylan as he paused behind the car door, flicking up to the neighbour on his knees for a moment only, tracking back and picking up Rachel as she stepped up to the porch before disappearing almost entirely as she got closer to the door. The view shifted slightly "Well _hallo_ gorgeous," her voice sounded warmly as Tim exited the car, his hand resting casually on his weapon as he cast a professional look around the neighbourhood. The Chief snorted and Raylan grinned, but Tim remained impassive as he watched himself walk along the side of the car to stand in front of the house. "What _are _you doing?" she wondered as he remained still – Raylan took a couple of steps, and then his head turned towards her. "

"Yeah – sorry about that" muttered Raylan even as Marion's chuckle was heard.

"Ah – so we've been reading files have we deputies? And you _know_ I'm here don't you Timothy? The question is – what are you going to do about it?"

There was silence except for a slight suggestion of a breeze in the background as on screen Tim and Raylan stood still and then took the few steps towards the porch, disappearing under the angle of the roof, only their shoes (or boots in Raylan's case) visible.

"Well that wasn't in the script," she commented, as the marshals' protective circle escorted Winston to the edge of the porch. "Nice," she added and the view paused on Tim's face, Winston's hair the only thing showing, "although of course I _could_ just shoot through you Deputy – you know that don't you?"

Tim shifted slightly against the wall.

There was the sound of a sigh, "well I suppose I'll just take my bat and ball and go home then." The view shifted to the ground at a much closer distance as the rifle was lifted; it shook a bit.

"What's happening?" asked Raylan in some confusion.

"She's leaving," replied Tim, feeling as confused as Raylan, his eyes narrowed.

Then there was a buzzing sound that made them jump, Art fumbled for his phone and then looked back at the screen in confusion.

"Fuck," Marion's voice hissed and the view shook again, settling back into its original position – focusing first on a light blue truck rumbling along the road toward the house.

"Boyd and Devil," Raylan explained to Art.

"Thankyou Raylan – but I think I can get it without the subtitles," replied the Chief with heavy sarcasm.

The view moved backwards, dwelling for a moment on a plain looking sedan which was following the pickup and then dropping further backward to where a second pickup with several men seated in the back was driving down a side street; Raylan exhaled in sudden understanding. Then the view moved forward again to where an upmarket sedan had pulled into a driveway about four houses away from where the first pickup had parked.

"Who is that?" Art demanded in direct contradiction to his previous statement.

"Is that you Miguel?" Marion's voice answered him, sounding almost predatory.

The view moved again to where the men were getting out of the car, focusing on Boyd for a moment and then to the top of Devil's head. For a second there was a cross hair on the screen – centred on the top of Devil's head; then it vanished.

"Is this what I think it is?" asked Art, looking over to Tim.

Tim nodded _nice Marion, nice_ he thought but Rachel put it into words. "Proof of kill."

The view moved back to where the other men had come to a stop in front of Tim.

"Can you hear that?" asked Art with a frown and Rachel picked up the remote control, increasing the volume. The actual words weren't distinguishable but the voice was.

"That's me," said Raylan in surprise.

"She had microphones at the house?" blinked Art. "Well I suppose that explains the neighbours' fucking dog."

"So come on boys – are we doing this or what?" Marion's voice hissed as the six men seemed to almost stand still.

The view however kept moving, tracking around the group and then back down the road to where the car sat motionless. "So if you're there Miguel, and your cannon fodder is there, where are _you_ Carlos?" The view moved to the mountains across the valley.

Tim froze, "no," he whispered in a half choked tone.

"Hmm?" Raylan looked around curiously but there was another buzzing sound from the television and he turned back before he could more than take in the curious shade of puce that Tim's face had turned.

Marion's voice chuckled "Oh mate – you really think you can sneak up on _me_?"

The sound of the explosion made them all flinch, their reactions a mirror of what happened on the screen – apparently the majority of the microphones were in the back yard. They watched as Cal started to draw on Raylan and was shot dead, Wayne dropping from Tim's own shot without ever making one of his own and Tim turned and fired across the SUV. The view moved down the road to where a dark haired man was leaning on the car and letting loose with a heavy calibre automatic rifle. The cross hairs appeared on the screen and turned red – they all jumped as there was a spit through the speakers.

"Silencer?" Raylan asked rhetorically.

They saw the man throw himself behind the car as there was a puff of paint from the hood right in front of him. "Shit," swore Marion's voice, the view not changing as the white cross hairs came up again. There was the sound of gunfire, distant this time and the view found the house again, Raylan on the porch and huddled up against the house and Tim huddled behind a tyre and shooting along the wall of the house. The cross hairs turned white, then red and the man shooting at Tim dropped dead, a splatter of red against the house.

"What?!" exclaimed Raylan and sat up suddenly. "She – she..." He looked at Tim but found that his eyes were fixed on the screen, his face even paler.

Tim reached out and dragged a chair over to him, sitting before his knees gave out. Suddenly it all made sense; the second car, why she hadn't taken a shot on the Saturday afternoon or Sunday night, why Winston had never told them about the Arnolds, Miguel's competition with her. _Damn her_ he thought in agony _why didn't she tell me?_

The view didn't dwell on the body but moved briefly back again to Tim, still crouched by the wheel of the car, then back up to the towncar where the barrel of a rifle could be seen. The crosshairs appeared on the screen and went red – the barrel of the rifle flung backwards suddenly. "Shoot that you prick," she said in satisfaction and then the view flashed back to the house, finding Boyd huddled behind the front wheel of his truck and tracing around the windows and base of the vehicle. "Where are you, you little Devil?" she whispered. "ah-ha," she crowed as she found an ankle poking out from behind the wheel – the crosshairs went red again – the ankle disappeared just as the sound of gunfire erupted in the 'effects mike' again. The crosshairs turned red three more times and they saw the bullet holes appear in the side of the bed of the truck.

The sound of gunfire intensified and they were looking at the outer edge of the porch – then Winston appeared, hurrying towards the corner of the porch, "keep your head _down_ Winston," she growled; the crosshairs appeared again and turned red as it centred on one of the porch posts. Winston was dragged back by Raylan and the post shuddered again – the view flashed up to the mountain again – scanning the trees. "Where are you, you bastard?" More sounds were heard and the view flashed back to where Tim was still pointing his gun to the neighbour's house.

They watched as Tim moved under Raylan's cover to the house, then the view flashed down the road, the crosshairs appeared and turned red four times in quick succession as they caught sight of a flash of a person sprinting from the car to the side of a house. "Shit – you tricky bastard," she cursed. There were more gunshots and the view abandoned the space underneath the house where the figure had disappeared to come back to where Raylan and Tim were firing around the edge of the house from the porch. Boyd moved within the view, ducking down low as he sprinted around the front of his truck, along the edge of the SUV and onto the porch. The crosshairs appeared on the screen and Devil's head poked out. There was a flurry of gunshots and the crosshairs vanished as the view moved up to the fence where a gun was protruding and the crosshairs appeared red – the fence panel exploded and the gun disappeared. They heard the Mexican's taunt more clearly through the speakers. "Poke your head out a little bit more Miguel, _then_ I'll be having fun," she growled and the crosshairs turned red twice to make her point.

"I'm touched Winston," she remarked dryly as Winston's scream was heard. The view moved back to the porch; Raylan and Tim were clearly in view, the view centred on Boyd's head for a moment, the crosshairs appeared momentarily as Boyd moved and Devil's leg came into view – then Tim was leaning across the view, firing around the corner. "Shit," she swore and the crosshairs disappeared. The view moved from the group to the fence, then back to the porch, back to the fence, then back to the porch as there was a crash of glass and three rapid fire gunshots. "What the fuck?" she demanded; then the view was back at the fence and the red crosshairs showed several shots being fired.

"How many shots is that?" asked Raylan.

"Eighteen," replied Tim automatically, having counted without thinking. "On the assumption that she's got a M107 she's got two more in this clip – unless she's got one of the Desert Storm rifles – that gives her 12 in each clip. (1)"

"Piss off mate," snarled Marion and the red crosshairs centred on the head of a man tiptoeing along the roof. The blood spray was visible even from the distance and he dropped dead – there was a sudden explosion of gun fire as Raylan and Tim shot through the roof.

"Nineteen," adjusted Tim emotionlessly.

They watched as Raylan leant out around the house and then Boyd dashed out from under the porch. "Shit!" she cursed as Tim followed; the view shifted back to the mountains and they saw the crosshairs turn red as she fired five times. "Damn" she swore again as there was a clicking sound.

"What's she shooting at?" asked Art.

"The other sniper," said Tim baldly. "Not that she knows where he is, she's just hoping to get lucky."

"The what?" exclaimed Raylan and Art together, Raylan winning the volume contest but Art the right to continue talking. "You never said there was another sniper out there."

"He didn't know," Rachel said quietly as Tim stayed silent.

Raylan blinked and his mouth fell open a bit. "Oh no," he muttered, half covering his face with one hand and waving the other hand to the screen as Art looked over at him with a puzzled look, then at Rachel who looked distinctly unhappy and then at Tim who just looked _well empty_.

"What the hell?" Marion's voice hissed as Raylan and Rachel moved out from under the porch, their bodies obscuring Winston. "Oh hell no," she groaned and the view moved back up into the mountains. There was a scream in the background but the view stayed on the mountains; there was a slight flash to the side – the view zoomed in on it, then there was another. "Well hello Carlos," she purred and the crosshairs appeared red – they saw an indistinct figure, its outline blurred by the creation of leaves and twigs it wore, throw itself out of the way as the bullet impacted on the tree immediately adjacent. "Shit," she cursed.

"The M107 has an effective range of 2000 yards (1) although its maximum range is over 7000 yards," intoned Tim as the crosshairs turned red several times as the figure ran, ducking behind trees which intercepted the third bullet, before it disappeared into a small valley. "Unlike the house she hasn't had a chance to range the target properly and she's shooting across the breeze."

"Arsehole," complained Marion and the view moved back down to the house, seeing Raylan, Rachel and Devil all standing before tracking across to the other car.

"What are you doing Tim?" she wondered as she watched him aim his rifle in her general direction, the top of Boyd's head only over the truck far enough to let the scope rest on the car. "Timothy," she said warningly. There was a flash as his scope focused on her; "Shit!" she swore and the view saw sky before it was looking at dirt, just as there was a sharp crack and a whine.

"So you didn't _miss_," said Raylan. "I did wonder."

Tim didn't even look at him but stared at the screen.

The view stayed still for a moment, what could have been her boot moving in and out of the screen with the breathing they could hear in the effects. "Damn," she hissed and the view shook a bit as she moved, seemingly sliding along her back for a few seconds before the view changed as the scope pushed through some vegetation and over some small rocks until they could see themselves again – Boyd climbing into the car with Tim standing at the driver's door. The view jumped up to the figure stepping out from behind the house and the crosshairs turned red – but the figure was moving fast and the shot missed, the view moved and then stopped, she cursed and the scope changed elevation, finding the figure just as he vanished amongst the trees, Tim's figure flat out in pursuit. "Pursuing primary," she reported, "secondary abandoned."

Raylan would later describe the next ten minutes as one of those big screen cinemas which immersed the viewer entirely in its picture. The view showed them the hurried descent down the side of the hill; the view shuddered and they heard the impacts against the trees, occasionally saw her hand extend out to push herself off a tree in front of her, the scrabbling over rocks and the frantic steps as the footing collapsed under her. The only other sound they heard was her breathing, heavy but not laboured.

Not one of them considered fast forwarding.

She stopped as she got to relatively flat ground and they leaned forward a little; all almost subconsciously holding their breath when she did. Rachel turned up the sound a bit and they all heard the gun shot – there was silence and then faintly they heard the sound of a voice floating through the trees. She moved off quickly then, all but sprinting along the floor of the valley, ducking around trees and jumping over the fallen logs and rocks that were in the way.

Tim closed his eyes briefly, but swallowed heavily and opened them again, his eyes resolute.

Suddenly all they saw was the canopy of the trees and there was an audible thump as she hit the ground, the scope shaking with the impact of the butt connecting and then it dropped onto the ground. They stared at a hiking boot and the lower end of her leg as it strained and dug into the ground; there was a strange sort of gurgling sound, then a growl and then a solid thump, then another and another. The boot, and its fellow, was suddenly upright and they spun around. "You should have run Carlos" they heard her voice grit out.

"You would have followed me wouldn't you Pan?" replied another heavily accented Spanish voice.

"Yes Carlos I would have," she replied, still in a slightly strained voice. "But you would have lived longer."

"I almost had you," his voice sounded almost triumphant.

"Close – but no cigar Carlos," she said and there was a scrape of steel; the boots suddenly jumping out of their view.

There was a sort of a slithering, rustling sound punctuated by solid thumps and grunts, the occasional twang of steel against steel. The boots flashed through the view, followed by another heavier pair, then both pairs flashed back in the other direction. Raylan's mouth opened and he turned to Tim, only to close it as he saw that his colleague's eyes were closed and he was making motions with his hands, almost as if trying to mimic the actions that were creating the sound. There was a different sound then, almost a sloppy sound, accompanied by a cry of pain – a man's voice. There was silence, then a thump – a few leaves floated past the scope. "Bye bye Carlos," her voice whispered and then the scope was being picked up and they were running again.

"I suppose I had better inform the FBI that there is another body for them to find," noted Art but made so move to get up from the table.

She stopped running abruptly, the scope was snapped up and they saw a figure at a distance through the trees – the zoom was engaged and the figure suddenly became Tim.

"What the...?" breathed Raylan, glancing at Tim and seeing that he was leaning forward.

Tim in the picture was walking slowly, his hands held out slightly to the side. There was a suggestion of a figure behind him but Tim's body was obscuring the view. "Shit," breathed Marion's voice and she was moving again, low down to the ground, to a tree ahead and slightly to the side. The automatic rifle came into view and the crosshairs turned white – then Tim whirled, grabbing the barrel and they heard the stream of bullets. "Fuck," she hissed, ducking back behind the tree and they heard the impact of bullets close by. She came around again and they watched the men struggle, not hearing the noise but seeing the blows inflicted by both men and then hearing the second set of bullets. The crosshairs remained on the screen, white, the centre moving as the men moved in tandem, no clear shot presenting itself.

There was a quiet noise in one of the speakers, except for the volume that the TV was turned up to they wouldn't have heard it, and Art turned to it with a frown. Tim straightened, "no" he whispered.

"Piss off," Marion whispered quietly; the view didn't waver, staying with the men even as Miguel's back was turned to the screen. "Shit," she swore – and the crosshairs stayed white.

A noise somewhat between a choke and a groan came from Tim's throat.

Miguel stepped back, the cross hairs followed him but he was half obscured behind a tree. "Bastard," she cursed as he lashed out with the rifle and his foot, again the crosshairs stayed white.

"She's not taking the shot," frowned Raylan. He missed the look that Rachel gave him, "he's too close to you!" Raylan realised what Tim already had figured out.

"At that range the bullet would go straight through the both of us," confirmed Tim dully.

"What _is_ that?" asked Art as the slight noise was repeated but then Miguel's taunt overbore it and Marion's muttered curse to 'piss off'.

"Just step to the left Tim – to the right even," she whispered, the crosshairs centred on the base of Miguel's neck, Tim visible either side of him. They saw the muscles in Miguel's neck tense. "Fuck," she swore and the view dropped to Miguel's knee – the crosshairs turned red.

The shot made them jump again – but there was another sound, a sharp crack and "Fuck" Marion gasped – but the view was already lifting to where Miguel was leaning off balance. There was the sound of another shot, fainter, and the back of Miguel's head disappeared – the view lifted and they saw Raylan walking through the forest, Tim's rifle in his hands.

Tim pushed back his chair with a screech, all but kicking the door to the locker room open and slamming it closed so hard that the picture on the wall dropped to the ground.

"Fucker," hissed Marion's voice; the view of the forest floor moved up and down a couple of times with her breath. "Primary targets removed," she reported and the screen went blank.

"She killed that little girl's parents in their bed," said Rachel absently. "Simultaneous gunshots to the head. _After _taking out, but not killing, the ten armed guards that patrolled the estate. Apparently she stumbled on the little girl in the hallway on the way out – she was meant to be at boarding school but there'd been an outbreak of chicken pox and she'd been sent home. Drove her across two states to where her grandmother lived."

They stared at the blank screen, listening to the locker room being dismantled.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

(1) I might have gone the long way around through Google but the source of this information was apparently an Australian Defence Force site, so this information may actually be correct.

So was that what you'd expected?


	16. Some Months Later

This has taken much longer than anticipated – sorry. Real life and an inability to set out dialogue in a sophisticated manner set me back severely. I think I have it now.

Sorry Fire-NA-Seapark – didn't happen this time around.

Is a very very VERY long chapter, should be at least two – but I wanted it in one. So get yourself set for the long haul or come back when you have time.

Chapter 16 – Some months later

"Come for a drink?" Raylan poked his head into the locker room door. He took in the canvas bag, the backpack and shook his head. "Oh-oh, no – I've seen that outfit before. You're going after the Holy Grail again aren't you?"

Tim looked up from tying the laces on his hiking boots, grinning. It had been close to four months now since the incident at Redbud – as he had predicted Marion had just vanished off the face of the earth. This had annoyed the FBI no end and they had made the marshals' lives miserable for a while, there hadn't been anything on him but he suspected the gusto with which they pursued Raylan for corruption charges had been somewhat heightened by their frustration at one) not being able to find Marion and two) not being able to find her gun.

"What makes you think you can find it when the FBI couldn't?" asked Raylan, leaning against the door.

"Apart from the fact that the FBI are idiots?" Tim quirked a brow, standing.

Raylan acknowledged that with a tip of his head. "Well – there were a _lot_ of idiots combing those mountains," he returned.

"They were city boys Raylan," replied Tim as if that explained everything and to a local Harlan boy like Raylan it did to a certain degree. "They were so worried about getting their shoes dirty that they barely kicked a rock over. Besides," he shrugged, "she's a sniper – so am I."

"What – so you think alike?" Raylan waved his finger in the air as he was prone to do. "Have you _seen_ Marion Tim?"

"No Raylan, I have not," declared Tim with a hint of a smile in his eyes and parroted back the phrase that the FBI had demanded from him under oath on a weekly basis for the first three months. "Nor have I spoken to, heard from or had any form of written correspondence with her."

"She could be dead," suggested Raylan, after a slight chuckle of appreciation.

Tim smirked a little. Marion's uncle was a small man, but upright, his eyes within his wrinkled face keen and determined. There wasn't much physical likeness with Marion, except the eyes. His shopkeeper's smile of welcome at the sound of the door opening had died off and he'd looked at Tim in silence with narrowed eyes for several moments – Tim hadn't spoken, he figured he really didn't need to introduce himself – then invited Tim into the back room while he processed some films. "I want to thank you for what you did for my niece," he had started quietly, the faintest hint only of an Australian accent teasing at the edge of his precise annunciation.

"So she's not dead then?" had queried Tim, his voice with a slight edge. For the first three weeks he had been expecting something – a phone call, a text, an email, a note under his windscreen, _anything_. Nothing that could be traced – he knew she wasn't a heroine in one of his fairytales, but just something that told him she was alive. It hadn't happened and his certainty that she'd escaped had started to wobble.

Tony Arnold had turned away from the bench to examine him – Tim had put on his best poker face. "Why would I tell you either way?"

"I suppose it wouldn't worry you having the federal police wasting their time and money searching for a dead woman would it?" Tim had observed and the slight upturn of Tony's lips before he turned back to his films had been answer enough. "I suppose I can just wait around here until she shows up?"

"The FBI are using the bronze Cadillac at the moment I believe," had offered Tony helpfully. "Agent Johns has a wife and two kids – he normally pulls the middle shift so he can get home to tuck them in. Agent Nash is new – she's single too by the way."

Tim's eyes had lit up as he had caught the glance that was thrown his way under lowered brows, well being able to recognise the irony in the tone as well as the irritation in the glance. "Is she ok Mr Arnold?" he had asked seriously.

Tony Arnold had paused and Tim had an uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing more than Tim would like him to. "My niece is a long way from ok," had replied Tony and that was all he would say on the subject – but to Tim it had been enough.

Tim straightened from his pack, giving Raylan _the _look and he sighed. "Well ok then – she probably isn't. Are you perhaps hoping that she'll come down after it herself?" his eyes narrowed.

"Do you want to come and chaperone me Raylan? (1)" invited Tim. "I've got a spare bedroll in the car – you could use that."

"What – I can't use hers?" prodded Raylan with a significant glance at the 'swag' as Tim referred to it. The FBI had gathered all of her gear (with the obvious exception of a gun and any casings) from her nest and after a short struggle – because she had 'shot' at a federal witness – it had all come to the Lexington Marshal's office. Marion's car had been found on the third day, tucked under some trees near a trail head several hours' trek from the nest; it however had not been 'hers' but had been a legitimate (cash) hire and while the alterations to its standard specifications had raised some interested brows, they hadn't been illegal. The FBI had dissected it, breaking open the glove box to find a handgun (with no identifying marks and no ballistic history) and an envelope with details of the Bernatoni deaths. The CSU team had poured over it for another while but had gathered no more than a few stray hairs without DNA attached – there hadn't even been fingerprints; Marion was obviously all but OCD when it came to cleaning up after herself. The car had therefore been returned to the owner, who had been almost happy to have it returned. There were fingerprints on the gear found at the nest, and DNA, which proved conclusively that it belonged to Marion but after one polite enquiry for the return of his 'poor (sniff) abducted niece's belongings' had been (punctiliously politely) refused, no further claim had been made and so it stayed in the evidence locker. Well, most of it.

"No," snorted Tim, not even trying to deny the accusation. "It is warm and waterproof – it even has this little flap thing – you peg it out and it keeps the rain off your head." _Plus it still had a slight smell of violets._

Raylan hesitated. "Ah – I sort of..." He paused, looking guilty. "I can cancel..."

"It's fine Raylan," Tim let him off the hook. "You're life is complicated at the moment – I get it."

"Rain check?" Raylan raised a brow.

"Ye of little faith," snorted Tim.

By the mid morning of the Sunday however he had to admit that Raylan was probably right. The FBI had spent weeks in the hills until the winter had arrived and driven them away. Not only had they brought a raft of recruits from Quantico but they had drafted in the State Troopers to assist. That level of interest had not gone unnoticed in the County of Harlan and any number of locals had then since devoted their spare time to finding whatever the 'federals' had been looking for. So far the haul included a couple of bodies, several weed sheds and a large cache of guns which had got the ATF interested – but there had been no sign of Marion's sniper rifle.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked himself as he sat down on a log (after carefully checking that there were no snakes) to eat the last of the sandwiches Mrs Gilbert insisted on filling his pack with.

He had encountered Jenny Gilbert on one of his first trips down to Redbud, he'd been drinking in one of the local bars and she sat next to him; she'd been sweet and cute – a little bit too sweet and cute for him in fact. She'd taken his polite refusal gracefully and had instead introduced him to her mother who ran a bed and breakfast establishment and was always happy to have him spend Friday night there before he headed out, looked after his car until he picked it up on Sunday and never too worried when he had to cancel on short notice.

"Waiting for her to show up?" he queried himself further somewhat mockingly.

"This is her _father's_ gun," he justified himself to himself. "She's not going to abandon it." Of course he didn't know that for sure, while the Australian military had started out much more co-operative than the Canadian authorities (who granted had probably had enough from the FBI) the tone over the phone had become all but frosty with the mention of the Arnold name; they had told him that Sergeant Arnold's service weapon had been recovered after his death and destroyed. There was _no way_ that a civilian would ever be given a military grade rifle – even one with such close connections to the Regiment. Then they had hung up the phone. Tim hadn't bothered ringing again.

"She probably already picked it up," his logical brain continued, his voice the only real sound in the forest with the exception of a few birds.

"She hasn't been back," replied the emotional side. _Because she would have..._

He snorted – he couldn't even finish the thought, that's how absurd it was. But he couldn't shake the feeling – he and Marion had unfinished business.

He chewed in silence on his sandwich, looking out at the forest. He had always concentrated his search on the place where they had found her, working his way down the hill in different trajectories, examining inside tree stumps, looking for ground that had been disturbed, even looking up in the tree branches. Nothing. So he had two options: either she was a better sniper than him and knew how to camouflage her weapon better than he (and granted he had only ever sniped in trees during training) or he was looking in the wrong place. She had gotten lost after all.

That thought brought him to an abrupt mental stop. _How had she gotten lost?_ he wondered. The route from her nest to where she had encountered Carlos was pretty direct – straight down the side of the mountain and then along the valley. He knew that she had to be pretty good at finding her way – the hike from the car to the nest would have been beyond anyone without some skills – although she had had a map, which had been found at the nest. _No emergency beacon though_, his eyes narrowed and he stood with new purpose.

The hike back to the road took him a couple of hours, he retraced his steps to past the house and into the trees and then to where Miguel had been about to shoot him. A couple of trials found him the tree that she had shot Miguel from, the bullet holes only just started to heal over, and he stood there for a moment. He shook himself, putting himself in Marion's shoes; she'd just been bitten by a venomous snake, she'd just cut herself in an attempt to bleed it out and had done what he could to slow the poison, the temptation to yell for help from the Marshals would have been strong, but the protective instinct, the loyalty to her uncle was stronger. Plus she was young, healthy and fit – she must have backed her chances. She wouldn't have dumped the gun right there – she would have some confidence that she could get back.

He walked back up the valley at a slow pace – she wouldn't have pushed it too hard, no matter what the temptation because speed meant the poison moved faster. So she would have gone at a steady pace – past where Carlos lay dead and towards the base of the hill. He recognised the place that she had fallen and all but slid into the creek by the large tree stump, and looked up – and up. It wasn't so much of a hill but a sheer cliff – only about twenty feet high but it may as well been Everest to her in her condition. _She would have detoured. _He looked to the left and started walking up the valley further; the wall persisted along for another ten minutes and then flattened out slightly – it was enough and he turned up it, pulling himself up with his hands when his footing gave out on him. He zigzagged up the hill, taking his time and watching his watch – she'd rung him about two hours after being bitten, by then she had been in her spot. So far he'd walked for about half an hour.

Then he reached the top of the hill and started going down again.

He could imagine her reaction – by missing that point where she had come down she had entered into a new valley system. He kept going down and then started back up the next hill – by rights it should be the hill her nest was on – but then he reached the top of it and looked over another sheer edge.

At this point she would have abandoned her nest – she had the gun and the casings, all that remained at the nest was her personal gear and she did have photographs to justify being there as Marion Arnold. So he looked left and right – right was in the general direction of Redbud, so he turned left in the general direction of her car. For another ten minutes he walked along the ridgeline of the hill, then the ground dropped away underneath his feet and he headed down into a valley again. He stopped to take a drink in the little creek that flowed along it and looked at his map to figure out if this was the same creek that he'd already crossed – a luxury that she hadn't had. He looked at the incline in front of him and then the gentler one up the valley to his right; he turned right. The going began to get a bit steeper and he could see the mountain ahead of him – the shadows were starting to lengthen and he could feel the temperature drop. He saw a track to his left and paused, looking up. It was a goat track, steep and uneven, winding around the rocks. He looked forward and to the right – this was the only way up. He looked at his watch _almost_ _2 hours_.

_Here_ he decided _here she would have realised that she wasn't getting out of this. Was it then that she decided to ring him?_ He didn't need to look at his cell to know that he would have no coverage and he turned, looking around. The other wall of the valley was as steep; there were no trees, no stumps – nothing to hide a rifle in.

He sighed _probably hadn't gone the right way anyway_ and looked again at his watch. _Time to go back to Mrs Gilbert_ he decided _and to admit defeat_. Either she had come back for the gun earlier (and had not made contact), or he didn't think like she did.

Tim uncapped his bottle and took a sip, frowning as he realised it was all but empty – he still had a two hour hike back to the road, then he would have to get back to the Gilbert house before he could think about driving home. He took the few steps forward and lowered himself to the water, holding the bottle in the water and grimacing at its temperature. He looked into the water; it was pristine, crystal clear and he could see all the rocks and the pebbles that formed its bed; there were small fish or perhaps tadpoles flitting about and his eyes followed them over to the other bank.

He tipped his head and frowned as they disappeared into a mass of vegetation. Everywhere was green, spring was busting out of the ground and the new growth was a vibrant light green.

Everywhere except that side of the bank.

He dropped the bottle to the ground, paying no attention as it tipped and spilled the water, stepping into the water – even the cold water seeping in through the tongue of his boots didn't rouse his attention.

He bent down and tugged at a piece of the dry grass – it held.

He tugged again – harder this time and the grass came out in his hand – a tangle of dead roots at its end. He bent down and caught a glimpse of a shininess that just didn't exist in nature.

He smiled.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Marion closed the door quietly behind her and paused. The house was quiet – unearthly quiet and her senses twitched. She forced herself to unfreeze, _well der Marion, of course it's quiet_. She had watched him drive out earlier in the morning (he looked good – he'd let his hair grow a bit more) and had then waited until he was beyond the point of returning for some forgotten item before approaching the house – she'd learnt _that_ lesson the hard way when she was younger. Letting herself in had been easy enough but she was now unsure – something felt off. _Where else would it be?_ she justified her actions – readying herself for her uncle's explosion. _Just get it done_ she decided and stepped down the hall, glancing in the bedrooms as she passed. She ignored the kitchen and went to the linen cupboard, opening it and grimacing a little at the slight creak that sounded with the second door.

She contemplated the gun cupboard in front of her; it was a large and solid steel box, bolted to the frame of the house with a combination lock – just for the fun of it she tried the door; it was locked. "Crap," she murmured, despite the fact that the house was empty she kept her voice low. Her lock picking skills were excellent, but her safe cracking skills were fairly rudimentary – her best bet lay in trying to guess the combination. _His birthday _– she knew that from his file and she tried that. _His unit number, the date of his first confirmed kill, his mother's birthday, his badge number, 12345678, 87654321 _she cursed when nothing she could think of worked. _Couldn't be _she tried her birthday – absurdly put out when it didn't work either. She turned and contemplated the two doors – one to the kitchen and one back to the lounge room; he wouldn't have picked the numbers at random, with all the passwords that one had to remember he wouldn't risk a mental blank blocking him from accessing his weapons; there would be some type of significance and there would be something in the house that would remind him. She glanced at her watch – she'd give herself another ten minutes to figure it out then she would have to about an hour to try and actually crack the combination; if that didn't work then she would have to leave, gun or no gun. _And that would be it_ she decided _no more _she would just let this part of her life fade into a, pleasant, memory.

She walked to the kitchen, remembering the few things that he had on display above his cupboards; it wouldn't take her long to check those out and then she would head into the lounge room – her money was on the book shelf. She stepped through the doorway and saw it: her gun – right there on the dining room table, sitting next to a steadily burning candle. "What the " she breathed and took another step.

A gun clicked and she tensed.

"Don't." The word was an order but the delivery was a request; a request in very familiar tones.

She turned slowly, keeping her hands out low and visible and found Tim in the corner of his kitchen, his rear end pressed into the bench, his lithe length at ease at an absurd angle, his gun pointed directly at her. Despite herself her lips twitched up in a slight smile, "Hello Deputy," she said. "What an unexpected surprise."

"Well you never call, you never write," he remarked sardonically, his own lips turned up but his gun held steady.

"How did you know?" she asked, waiting for the slam of the door as the FBI, or whatever other backup he had, came.

"Well after that little device I pulled when I moved the gun _didn't _go boom I realised it was your missing emergency beacon and knew that you'd be monitoring it," he explained easily, though she noticed that his gun was still steady. "And then when Jenny tried something on that she'd already been told no I realised you've had me watched all this time." His head tipped a little. "You really thought Jenny was my style?"

Her brows rose and she pulled a face. "She's blond, skinny, pretty and sweet," she replied with a touch of acidity.

Tim just smirked _he liked his women a bit more robust_. "You carrying?" he asked casually.

"No Deputy," she replied with heavy irony. "I did not bring a weapon into your house. That would be _illegal_."

"Like breaking and entering?" he snorted and flicked the safety back on the gun, pushing off the bench and pushing the gun into his waist band in the middle of his back.

_What the..._Marion blinked and turned around. _No-one. _ She turned back to face him – he had that slightly superior smirk that told her he was laughing at her. "Is it really breaking when your key is hidden in such an obvious spot?" she said slowly.

"The inside of the metal bar of my roller shutter is obvious?" he raised a brow and reached for the fridge. "Who'd have thought. Drink?"

"I don't drink bee..." Marion's words stumbled to a halt as there was a light chink of glass and he came out with a beer and a pineapple Cruiser (2). "Thankyou," she started to reach for it but he shut the fridge and tipped the Cruiser under his shirt to his other hand, there was a slight hiss as he untwisted the lid off before he held it out to her. Marion took it; their fingers touched in the exchange and she all but snatched her hand away, tipping the drink up and taking a large swallow to extinguish the flame that started. _Control yourself Marion_.

Tim smirked slightly and stepped out of the kitchen, almost brushing her hip with his hand as he made his way back to the dining table. He was pleased with her reaction – she was like a cat on a hot tin roof, on edge and unsure of herself. It had been a whole week since he had found the weapon, he knew the fact that the gun hadn't shown up on any of the official channels would have confused, maybe even worried her. He leaned in and blew out the candle (its slight flickering had been his only indication that she had entered the house) then sat down at his dining table, swivelling his chair slightly so he could see her. "I like your hair."

Marion's spare hand went to her head without thinking – all of her locks had been trimmed off and been shaped into a pixie cut that framed her face. There hadn't been much she could do to change its dark colour without a full on bleach, but she'd had some highlights tracked through which gave the same overall effect without the severity of the regrowth effect. She stared for perhaps a second and then shook herself. _Get a grip woman_ she snarked to herself; she wasn't sure what game he was playing but at the moment all he had on her was a federal warrant for escaping federal custody. "Thankyou – I've finally gotten used to it."

"Your new perfume is nice too," he added, leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes raking up and down her figure. _She looked good_ he decided, possibly slightly paler than when he last saw her – whether from illness or just the absence of sun he didn't know. Her body frame was unchanged though and his own body started to stir.

"Now I know you're lying," she responded lightly and took a sip of her drink to distract her body from reacting to his gaze. The sip was small – it was before lunch and she hadn't had much to eat – she didn't want to get drunk. _Not again. _"It must be the worst imitation of frangipani around."

"So you went home for a while then?" he asked.

"Home?" she allowed herself to drift over to the table, sitting down in the chair next to, but not too close to, him. "Where is that exactly?"

"I was thinking Australia," he replied, swivelling around towards her and leaning forward on his elbows.

"There's nothing there for me anymore," she replied absently.

Tim watched her eyes all but eating up the weapon; he had been right, he could see the desire in her, the need to check the weapon. He knew the sensation and put her out of her misery. "The fish ate a hole in the Ghillie suit and water got in. I oiled it up as soon as I got it home, gave it a clean as well. Short of actually firing it I can give the gun a clean bill of health." He watched her struggle with that for a moment. "Camera is shot though."

Marion turned to the pile of electronic equipment and shrugged.

"Lucky the memory card was safe," he tossed his live grenade.

Marion froze, the bottle to her lips, for about three seconds. She lowered the bottle and then her eyes to meet his.

"I can see what you mean about the moon and the sunrise shots," he continued in what was at the surface an absurdly relaxed tone. Underneath though – she could hear the tension. "The eagle shots – now if only you'd been the other side of the ridge I think you could have retired on them. The other shots," he shrugged, "I don't suppose there's a really wide market available for them but they made interesting viewing."

"Where did you find it?" she asked dully, not looking at him anymore, her eyes down at the table. _So this is out Waterloo is it Uncle?_ she thought ruefully.

"In Rachel's handbag," he smirked at the way her eyes popped up. "What a fluke hey? We figured it must have come out of your bra when they cut if off you to shock you." He paused. "You didn't consider that?"

"I thought it would have dropped out on the way down the hill," she replied. "Hoping it had anyway."

"Why?" he looked at her intently.

"Why?" she scoffed. Then her eyes narrowed. "You don't see a problem with it?"

"You killing people that were trying to kill federal officers?" he returned wryly. "Probably would have been neater if we'd deputised you first – but otherwise, no. The shootings were justified."

"So that is why it hasn't shown up with the FBI?" she queried slowly. _Why_ she wondered and it was her own feelings that gave her an answer. _It couldn't be_ she thought, her nerves jangling.

Tim held her gaze; neither confirming nor denying. She had saved his life – twice directly and several times indirectly. While he didn't approve of her choice of career he considered that he owed her something and handing her to Rudic and Weatherby didn't fit into his sense of honour. Art hadn't been that hard to convince (and the FBI's actions afterward hadn't made him doubt his decision); Raylan had been on board to start with and even Rachel, while she had some hesitation, had not put up too much of a fight although she _had_ insisted on keeping the card in her possession, _just in case_.

"You should have told me" he said quietly.

"What exactly would have been the point?" she demanded.

"Fuck it Marion!" he cursed and slammed his beer onto the table. "You don't see the _point_? I thought that you were trying to _kill_ Winston – that you'd taken a shot at me! You _let_ me think that."

"You think I wouldn't have?" she hissed back at him. "If Winston had been the target – do you really think that just cause I _fucked_ you that I wouldn't have shot you?" She tried to put as much venom in her voice as she could – she _probably _would have done her level best not to kill him but he didn't need to know that. _A clean break was best – hurt like hell but healed quicker._

Tim pushed back the chair violently and it rattled on the ground; he leaned forward, putting his arms either side of her. "I almost _killed_ you!"

"Pfft," she snorted, meeting his gaze with an arrogant equanimity that she didn't feel – his shot had been close, too close, except that she had been watching him she would have been dead.

Tim's brows rose, his anger dissipating suddenly as he saw her bravado for what it was. _She was scared._

Marion's mouth dried suddenly as she saw her upper hand vanish and her body realised that he was standing between her knees; that his upper arms were feathering along hers; that his face was less than a foot from hers. She dug deep, finding an acerbic voice. "And yet you carried me down the hill – even thinking that I had shot at you, tried to kill you. Deputy Timothy Gutterson – _hero_."

Tim flinched, the jibe finding his sensitive spot, and moved back from her, sitting back in his chair. He would never accept that term as a label for himself. _Pete was the hero_. But he faced her calmly. "You think that's _why_ I carried you down the hill? Some sense of duty?"

"Of course," she snorted. "I was a criminal and I had _played_ you," she crowed. "You were coming up that hill to drag me down, hand me over to the FBI and putting one of those big crosses through my photo."

He smiled. "That's not why I came for you," he said softly.

Marion's stomach dropped. _Move – get the fuck out of here_ screamed an internal voice and there was enough fear in her that she obeyed. She stood abruptly.

"Ah-ah," he said and caught her wrist in her hand, coming to his feet in front of her. She took a step back until her back was pressed against the side of the kitchen bench. "You don't get to run away," he eased closer to her. "So if you thought that all I wanted was to get you into custody why did you call _me_ Marion?" He paused, looking at her. "You _knew_ that I had shot at you, that I thought you were trying to kill me. And yet you still rang me."

"Your number was in my phone," she replied tersely, flexing her wrist slightly. His grip was gentle, but inexorable – she wasn't getting out of it without a full blown fight. At another time that might have interested her; he was a Ranger after all and might have the skills to match her – his strength maybe even enough than he could beat her. _But not tonight_.

"Bullshit," he said softly and moved forward, his other hand coming up to the bench and pressing against her waist. "You could have rung 911 – they could have tracked you from your phone, same as we did. So could the FBI and I _know_ that you know Agent Rudic's phone number off the top of your head, probably Agent Weatherby's as well – just for the fun of it. Your uncle..." he stopped suddenly as he felt the flinch through her arm and waist. "You rang him _after_ me, didn't you?" Her swallow was his confirmation. "So tell me Marion," he was almost whispering now. "Was it all analytical thinking? Because you knew we were close and already had a trace on your phone. Because your extraction team could track us and thereby rescue you. Is that why you rang me?"

_I rang you because I wanted you_ screamed Marion silently. Lying there on the ground with the waves of agony coming up from her leg, the nausea, the dizziness, knowing that she might die – there was only one person that she had thought of. But she couldn't say that – to make herself that vulnerable to anyone, let alone to a _federal_ where all the other issues came into play as well. _Her life was complicated enough already._

Tim waited, feeling the tension radiating off her. _Fuck I hope the phone doesn't ring_ he thought randomly – something as simple as that would set her into full flight or fight mode and he wasn't sure that he would be able to handle the explosion. He released her wrist and traced his fingers up the inside of her arm until he reached the bench; she shivered in response. "Tell me Marion," he whispered.

"Because you're a good man Deputy Gutterson," she replied in a low voice. "I knew, no matter what, that you would _come_. Maybe you would bring your colleagues, maybe you would bring the FBI, but _you_ would come and you would get me off that hill alive. I wasn't so sure of the others."

"Liar," he breathed and leaned in.

"No," she said and her hands moved up to his chest, exerting just a suggestion of pressure. She said it to herself as much as she said it to him.

Tim stopped but his smile stayed intact. "That's your uncle talking," he teased.

"He sends his regards by the way," said Marion quickly.

Tim scoffed.

"No really," she continued earnestly, lifting her eyes to look at him. "He actually quite likes you, almost an affection – although I will admit he has used the occasional expletive in combination with your name when your visits or phone calls were inconvenient. Craig," she added reflectively, "not so much – he sort of blames you for that whole furore with the FBI." _He's not too happy with me either_ she added to herself, the thought not worrying her at all.

"Well the feeling's mutual," admitted Tim – he quite liked Tony Arnold _as far as one can like a psychotic criminal mastermind_. His son however _was a complete weasel. _"And I don't doubt your uncle would send his regards." He paused and his voice mocked her a little. "I _do _doubt however that you mentioned where you were going before your little jaunt down here."

Marion cracked a smile. "I perhaps might have forgotten to mention where I was going," she grinned. "It's always better to ask for forgiveness later than for permission when you think the answer would be no." She saw the mistake in her words as his brows rose.

"I quite like that theory" he said.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly as he leaned forward, slowly just in case he had misread her, and pressed his lips to hers. It was a gentle kiss, ultra soft and he barely moved his lips over hers, but let the warmth of his lips pervade hers, tasting the sweetness of the alcohol on them. He felt her sigh through her slightly parted lips, felt her fingers clench against his chest; then he felt her lips tremble slightly and pulled back.

"You do know that this isn't a good idea" she whispered to his adam's apple, fighting the roar in her blood that wanted his mouth back on hers, his hands on her.

"In whose opinion?" he whispered back, his forehead a bare centimetre away from the top of hers.

"My uncle's, my cousin's, your chief's, your colleagues', the fbi, the mounties', the afp" she recited.

_Impressive list _he thought, knowing that she was right and not giving a shit. "And you?" he asked.

Marion moved her hands up his chest a little, extracting his dog tags from under his shirt – studying them as she moved them between her fingers. "There's a bit of me screaming to take my gun and leave," she started but then stumbled to a halt.

"And the rest of you?" his breath caught a little bit.

She looked up and found his eyes staring at her intensely. Her heart jumped and there was no more containing the desire. "Really wants you to kiss me again," she admitted.

His lips curved up. "That's the only opinion that matters to me."

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Tim folded his arms behind his head, propping himself up and admiring the naked lines of her back as she attached her bra hooks. The kiss in the kitchen had started out soft and slow but then her tongue trailed across his bottom lip and the walls that had been holding the hunger back disintegrated. They had made it to the bedroom with only a minimal amount of clothing still on, the rest sporadically dropped on floors and furniture from the kitchen, and that had come off very quickly – they hadn't even managed to pull the quilt back before landing together on the bed. The second time however had been slow and languid, spent exploring each other, gentle caresses interspersed with conversation. Marion had been keeping tabs on him but she only had the peripheral details and she wanted to know the specifics. She in turn told him of the flight out of Harlan in the back of a train carriage, how she had died another two times and how Jonas (who _did_ have medical training) had broken two ribs bringing her back before she stabilised. She had woken out of the US, she didn't tell him exactly where and he didn't pressure her, and stayed in bed for close to two weeks (or fortnight as she told him) recovering from the after effects of the bite and the broken ribs. He had taken her leg at that stage, eying off the discolouration. "Attractive isn't it," she'd said wryly. "Apparently one is not meant to cut a rattlesnake bite – makes the edema worse." "And the tattoo?" he had traced his fingers along her ankle where the skin felt unnaturally smooth. "Uncle rather insisted," she had explained. Tim had looked up and she had shrugged in response understanding his query without words, "I know – but I wasn't really in a condition to argue at the time."

She turned at his movement and smiled. "Sorry," she murmured, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You were just going to creep out without saying goodbye?" he raised his brow.

"Yes," she admitted. His brows contracted in protest and she swivelled, coming around onto her knees next to him. "Tim – this isn't one of your fantasy novels – there is no happy ending here."

"I know," he nodded and moved one hand out to caress her waist. "I'm not expecting you to suddenly turn all Mary Sue, marry me and have five kids."

"Well thank goodness for that!" she interjected sardonically although her heart leapt a little.

His mouth twitched. "I would like it if you would consider a different form of employment though," he suggested. "So that we never end up on opposite sides for real."

"I would never actually try to kill you Tim," Marion smiled at him, giving him an answer.

"I'm sorry I did," he replied, accepting it.

She smiled and moved in to kiss him – he moved his second hand out from behind his head and pulled her a little closer. "Hmmm," she protested slightly and pulled back. "I have to get the car back before midnight."

"He let you hire another one?" grinned Tim.

"The insurance premium was somewhat larger," she responded dryly. "And there is a Cinderalla condition – otherwise he rings my uncle."

He let her go, putting his hands back behind his head and watched her walk, in underwear only, out of the room. She came back a few minutes later, fully dressed and paused in the doorway, admiring the view for a moment before asking "can I take my gun?"

"_Well_ there were no fingerprints on it," her brows quirked at _that _piece of information, "and the bullets recovered at the scene were pretty much destroyed and useless for ballistics. Is it going to match any other ballistic results?"

"No" she said shortly.

Tim didn't think that was because she hadn't used it, more that it was a long range weapon and that's all she used it for. He could think of several cases in her file which the gun may be responsible for. "Disable it" he instructed.

Her brows rose and her mouth opened.

"It was in the water for several months," he intervened sharply. "Maybe the water level stayed over it, maybe it went up and down. I've cleaned it and oiled it as well as I could – but what if I've missed a speck of rust inside the barrel? It's going to grow and grow – you don't use it often – what happens if next time you do use it and the bullet gets pushed off course by the rust – or if it misfires in your face?'

She sighed, seeing his logic even if she did suspect his motives slightly. "I'll disable it." she agreed. She met his eyes for a few seconds. "Bye Tim."

And she was gone.

And yet he didn't think that was the last he would see of her.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Given the couple of stories coming out of the US and the associated discussion about what constitutes rape I deliberated long and hard about the 'persuasion' component of this chapter. Please note that Tim and Marion have a somewhat complicated relationship – as a default 'no' means 'no'.

Apologies to any FBI personnel /relatives reading – please remember I am basing the mentally capability comments from the general attitude in S3 of Justified.

(1) The story of how good, or not, of Raylan's chaperone skills can be found in Narcotic Casserole by Sophie1670.

(2) I'm not sure whether these are available in the US, but Australian and Kiwi readers will recognise it. This is what I called 'lollywater' in Chapter 1 – because despite their alcoholic content they just taste like lollies to me anyway!

I want to thankyou all for reading and especially those who gave me a review for fuel. I am not going to call this story complete yet because I have several other 'epilogues' which I would like to put in, but it may take a while. If they don't pan out on the screen as well as they do in my head I will change the status of the fic to complete.


	17. One Year Later

Ok – so I have decided that there is some life in my 'epilogues'. Hope you agree. I did have a bit of a break, but I also wanted to wait to see who lived and who died in the last two episodes of S4 SO SPOILERS if you haven't seen those. I have set this one year later from the end of Chapter 15 – should I think bring us to at least a couple of weeks after S4 finale.

Chapter 17 – one year later

Tim sighed as he approached his car. It had been a crappy day – he'd been in charge of a prison transfer, some low life in the same mould as Cal Wallace, that needed to go to Supermax because he had a habit of trying to (and most recently successfully) sticking shivs into his fellow prisoners and/or guards – he wasn't fussy. Art had not released his grip on the file immediately when handing it to Tim earlier that morning – Tim's brows had risen.

"This is an A grade asshole Tim," he'd warned. "He's a two man job – but at the moment all I have is you."

The office had been empty – it happened occasionally, normally when Raylan was causing some trouble, but this time he was innocent and it was just due to a whole raft of tasks that had arrived on Art's desk almost simultaneously. He had nodded. "A grade asshole – got it Chief. I'll put on my body armour."

"That wouldn't be such a bad idea," had nodded Art, releasing the file and pausing for a moment in front of Tim.

Tim had kept his face blank – but not _too_ blank. He knew that his boss had, _hell still was_, worried about him. The whole thing with Marion followed by the crap with the Bennetts, the Dixie Mafia and then the Drew Thompson shit – it was the type of year that might break a man. _He shouldn't have mentioned the whole PTSD thing _he thought ruefully, feeling like Art saw him as something fragile that needed to be protected and resenting it, even while appreciating the sentiment.

Art had apparently been happy with what he had seen and he had left Tim to review the file quickly _AAA asshole was a better description_ before heading out to the prison. Mr Dixon walked with a swagger – as someone who knew he was king shit, the cuffs barely fit around his massive wrists and ankles. His eyes had lit up when he'd seen Tim's slight figure as he had seen his freedom flash in front of his eyes – Tim had fixed that with a short sharp blow to the throat and the rest of the trip had passed in silence.

There was a sound in his pocket and he shuffled his coat further up his arm so that he could reach into his pants pocket for his phone. "Hello?"

"You done for the day?" drawled a familiar voice. "Rachel and I were headed to the bar – she's calling Art and you know what his answer is going to be."

Tim's lips stretched in a smirk. "I'll be there in ten," he agreed, reaching out with his other hand and hitting the remote unlock.

Raylan heard the explosion through the phone – a sharp detonation followed by a dull roar. "Tim," he said sharply, hearing the roar of fire only through the speaker. "Tim!" he said louder – so that Rachel stopped her own conversation and looked at him. "TIM!" he yelled.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

"I'm sorry honey – we're not open yet," Ava offered a smile to the obviously female figure as the door opened before she continued to wipe down the bar.

"That's alright," replied a well educated and modulated voice. "I actually came to talk to Mr Crowder."

Ava looked up again after the first couple of words: the voice was definitely not a southern one – but she didn't really think it was yankee either. _It was something foreign. _ The woman obviously didn't belong; everything from her tailored pants to casually sophisticated hairstyle screamed that. Ava's eyes went to the woman's waist – but there was neither badge nor weapon, something which worried Ava slightly; the woman walked with a confidence that no-one, not even Raylan Givens, who knew or knew of Boyd Crowder walked with when entering his bar. It would have been better if that confidence came from being some type of federal. "Is it business or personal?" she prodded.

The woman considered for a moment, a slight suggestion of a smile crossing her lips. "It sort of depends on his answer."

"Because if it's business, you can talk to me," Ava informed her. Living with Bowman had developed Ava's sense of bullshit, life with Boyd had sharpened it but it had been her short stay in prison which had honed it to a razor's edge and her nose was twitching hard. Boyd had made a deal with Duffy so she shouldn't have been from the Dixie Mafia, unless she had been associated with Nicky Augustine. She _could _be from Paxton. Ava didn't know – but she could sense danger in the woman and she wanted to keep her away from Boyd.

"I'm not looking for a job Mrs Crowder," there was more than a slight suggestion of a smile now, it was an open grin – normally Ava would have returned it, but the woman was still moving towards her.

"Oh honey – I can _see_ that. Although," she let her eyes go openly up and down the woman's figure as if making a professional assessment, "if you ever fall on hard times, I could find a place for you easily." She still couldn't see any weapon on the woman but she dropped her hand beneath the bar, reaching for the shotgun. "But if it's business that you want to talk about – you can start by talking to me."

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, dwelling for a moment on where Ava's hand disappeared beneath the bench long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. "So you've gone the whole partnership route have you? That's admirable Mrs Crowder – especially considering your bail conditions," the voice was silky now – any trace of friendliness gone and a slightly mocking tone in its place. "However this is something that I really need to talk to Mr Crowder about. Perhaps you would just knock on that wall behind you and ask him to come on out?"

"Mr Crowder is a bit busy at the moment," replied Ava with a tight smile, bristling at what she heard as a condescending tone and a threat.

"Well I guess I'll just go and make him unbusy," shrugged the woman, turning towards the door near the side of the bar.

Ava whipped the shotgun from behind the bench, ratching up a round and the woman paused, then slowly turned around to face her. Ava lifted her chin, raising her brows.

"Are you _sure_ that this is the play that you want to make?" the woman asked slowly.

"Hmm-mm," nodded Ava and gestured with the shotgun for the woman to move.

Later Ava would realise that was where she made her mistake and that when the woman had turned her hand had been behind her back. However at the time she was feeling triumphant; until the salt shaker hit her solidly above her eye, pushing her back a step as it split open the thin skin. Her finger depressed the trigger and the shotgun roared out, she heard footsteps scrambling from the back room, heard Boyd call out her name but then her hair was caught in a firm grip and there was a knife to her throat.

Boyd burst through the doors with his gun raised, his eyes wide in panic. He had been doing paperwork quietly; he had heard Ava moving about doing the domestics and then talking to someone – then the shotgun had exploded the quiet. A multitude of thoughts had tumbled through his head – but what he saw had not been one of them – not even _remotely_ an option. He stopped in the doorway, staring at his wife and the woman who held her. A woman who looked eerily familiar.

"Ma-am, I'm going to suggest that you put that knife down right now," Boyd's customary drawl had an edge to it, his gun held steadily towards her.

"How about you put the gun down Mr Crowder," countered the woman. "And," she added, "unless you are confident that whoever is pointing that gun at my back knows exactly where to shoot to stop my reflex slitting your lovely fiancé's throat – then I would suggest that you ask them to put the gun down at the same time."

Boyd hesitated.

"_Now_ Mr Crowder," she insisted and Ava hissed slightly as the blade tightened against her neck.

Boyd sighed. "Cousin Johnny," he called and opened his hands around his own weapon, placing it on a table.

"Cousin Johnny – how magnanimous of you Mr Crowder," the amusement was back in the woman's tone, but her grip didn't ease until the halting footsteps revealed the figure of the other Crowder at the doorway. "To your 10 o'clock Mrs Crowder, is a towel," she instructed and Ava's hand reached out to grab it, bunching it and placing it against her eye. "I don't suppose you'd care to share how your cousin managed to gain entrance to the inner circle?"

"Ava – are you alright honey?" asked Boyd, completely ignoring her.

"She's fine," answered the woman as she released her grip on Ava and leant casually against the bench, the knife still loosely in her hand. "You know how any cut at the eyebrow pisses out blood – couple of stitches and she'll be as good as new."

"Ma-am, you had better have a goddamn good reason for coming in and assaulting my woman like this," gritted out Boyd after he received a confirming nod from Ava.

"Woman?" she repeated in a low voice for Ava's ears only. "Seriously? You let him talk about you as if you were a possession?" Ava glared back at her and she shook her head and lifted her voice, "_I _just came to talk Mr Crowder – you fiancé however is slightly tempestuous," said the woman.

Ava made to move and the woman looked up, slowly shaking her head once – Ava leant back against the bar.

"Do I _know _you ma'am," Boyd frowned, a suggestion of a memory teasing at his mind.

"We have met," she admitted and her accent changed. "I think that I had red hair at the time though _monsieur_."

Boyd paled. Johnny looked at him in confusion and Ava swallowed – anything that made Boyd that scared terrified her.

Marion smiled. "I see you remember me?"

"I do indeed ma'am – the circumstances of our previous _meeting_ are engraved into my soul," confessed Boyd frankly.

"How sweet," she cooed. "You however were never in real danger though Mr Crowder."

"Unlike today?" he guessed.

She tipped her head to the side. "It _will_ depend on your answer."

"Well ask away ma'am," he invited, his arms spread in as good an imitation of ease as he could manage. "I was always good at 20 questions."

"Did you set that bomb?" she asked harshly.

"I beg your pardon?" he blinked.

Her face hardened and her voice became icy. "Mr Crowder – the uneducated, unrefined outlaw act won't work on me. It is a simple question. Answer it simply."

"Ma'am please," rushed Boyd. "It is not the complexity but the _specificity_ of the question that concerns me," he explained. "I have set numerous bombs, but I am not the only one who has done so and I require more details before I can fairly respond to your question."

Marion considered and accepted that there was a certain logic to that. "Did you set the bomb that detonated under a car in Lexington yesterday at 5.15pm?"

"Ma'am – I did _not_," he replied steadily.

Marion looked at him, searching for any signs of deceit – and saw none. She nodded and flipped the knife behind her back; Ava heaved a sigh. "Do you perhaps know of who may have been responsible?"

"I do not," Boyd replied steadily again. He contemplated the woman. "Perhaps if I knew the target I would be able to make a surmise."

Marion's brows lifted wryly, curious as to how he wouldn't know, but her voice was even as she replied. "One of the US Marshals – Deputy Gutterson."

Boyd's brows rose dramatically. "Ma'am if you had said Raylan Givens my answer may be different – but Gutterson? Why would I have anything against that young man?"

"Apart from the fact that he was responsible for the demise of your MP mate?" retorted Marion.

Boyd stiffened slightly.

"Oh yes Mr Crowder, I keep up to date with the news from Kentucky," she said dryly. "It is not beyond belief that you might take action against the Deputy I wouldn't think."

"Colton made his own choices ma'am," said Boyd slowly. "I did mourn his loss – but from what I know, Colton basically pulled the trigger himself. I may not mourn the loss of the man who did actually pull the trigger should circumstance bring his existence to an end but I harbour no actionable malcontent towards the deputy."

Marion nodded and straightened. She looked over to Ava, still pressing the towel to her eye. "My apologies Mrs Crowder," she waited to get a nod, slightly stiff and grudging, before continuing. "And may I say congratulations?"

Ava's mouth dropped open and she stared at Marion as she turned and walked along the barspace towards Boyd and Johnny.

"I daresay that I am insulting your intelligence Mr Crowder," said Marion as she paused in front of Boyd. "But given our misunderstanding last time we spoke – perhaps you will indulge me." She smiled at Boyd's gesture. "If someone should offer you an opportunity to obtain a great deal of money to correct the result of the former attempt on Deputy Gutterson's life I would like you not only to decline – for such work is far below a man of your standing – but to also mention that I have expressed interest in the contract and that I do not condone competition."

"Ah – and what name should I use when passing on this message ma'am?" he asked, his face less than a foot away from hers and finding that she was barely shorter than him.

"You don't need a name Mr Crowder," she all but purred. "A man with your linguistic affluence is more than capable of imparting a lasting description."

Boyd smiled in appreciation and she nodded, taking a step past him. There was the sound of two car doors closing and she froze; she turned back to Boyd. "We never had this conversation Mr Crowder."

"Ma'am – you are nothing more than a figment of my imagination," he nodded, recognising the tones that he could hear dimly from outside and not only understanding her desire not to be found but heartily concurring with it (given Ava's bail conditions). "Cousin Johnny – if you could please show the lady the back door?"

"Good day Mr Crowder," she nodded in appreciation and stepped away, in haste but not hurried.

"Well good morning Boyd," said another voice and Boyd planted a smile on his face as he turned back to face Raylan and Rachel as they came in the front door.

"Raylan Givens," exclaimed Boyd, holding out his hands. "_And_ Deputy Brooks. My cup runneth over!"

Raylan's eyes narrowed at the sight of the weapon on the table and then over to Ava, standing behind the bar with an obvious wound to her face (the t-towel behind her back). He glanced over at Rachel and she drew her weapon, holding it low as she walked past Raylan and towards the back room. "So what's being going on here?" inquired Raylan.

Rachel didn't hear the answer fully as she entered the back room, narrowing her eyes at the slightly darkened state. She snapped up her weapon at a movement and Johnny yelped, holding up his hands and looking nervously at the back door. She moved quickly, Johnny stumbled a little in front of her and she all but pushed him out of the way, shoving open the back door and examining the area in front of her. She started around the building – the roar of a motorcycle split the air and she leapt into a run, coming around the front of the building as the bike accelerated down the road. There was a noise behind her as Raylan came out, he lowered his gun and stood next to her for a moment.

"Get a look at him?" he asked.

"Her," Rachel returned grimly and turned to go back into the Crowder bar – Raylan stared at her in horror for a moment and then followed.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

_So it was happening_ thought Raylan later that afternoon, _fuck_. Boyd _of course_ had not given them anything except a whole heap of brilliant smiles and complicated prose which didn't end up actually saying anything. Ava had insisted that she had merely tripped and hit her head on the bar and Johnny had just retreated into mumbles – none of them even attempted to give a legitimate reason for the three weapons being out. The marshals had recognised a brick wall and had returned to the vehicle – neither of them had spotted the bike under the trees upon arrival and so had no details to announce to the State Police – they had put a bolo out on a well dressed woman and a bike just for the fun of it (although it wasn't a frequent occurrence in Harlan and may just have achieved a result) but nothing had been returned by the time they had got back to Lexington.

The explosion had tossed Tim around like a rag doll but he had come out of it with nothing except some pretty significant bruising and ringing in his ears. 'Another five yards closer though' – the bomb tech had not finished the sentence but it had been enough for Art to make Tim the subject of his colleagues' protection. He had refused to stay in hospital – stating that not only did he feel fine but that the building was complicated and required an unnecessary allocation of resources. He had gone home, not an ideal situation but better than going to a house with a brand new baby or where his presence would affect other family members. So Rachel had spent the night on Tim's couch, Raylan had spent it in a chair and Nelson had spent it in the seat of his car. They'd then escorted him to the office where he had promised, under pain of death from Art, to use the couch if required and to not move away from his desk.

The debate for the entire trip back from Harlan had been 'to tell Tim or to not tell Tim'. The possibility that it might have been Marion resurfacing from whatever hole she had been hiding under and deciding to get rid of the only real witness to her being 'The Serpent' had occurred to everyone but no-one had wanted to suggest it – they knew that Tim would resist the idea. Raylan even admitted some reluctance to himself. _It just didn't seem her style. _That wasn't really a quantifiable argument so in the car today his point had been _why would she wait this long?_ Rachel didn't have any other response other than maybe she had been waiting for the dust to settle; he suspected that it wasn't sitting well with her either but she was sure that it had been Marion whom she had caught a glimpse of on the bike.

Tim had to be told. As did Art and the FBI – _what a fun conversation that was going to be_.

The poor sleeping positions and the early start had meant that there had been a coffee deficiency for the morning –plus they both felt that they needed some fortification for the conversation that they were going to have, so Rachel had dropped Raylan off to pick up coffee while she returned the car to the pool. _So here he was_, carrying four cups of coffee, heading towards the courthouse _without a goddamn idea of what he was going to say to Tim_. 'Sorry buddy,' he thought. 'She is a killer after all.' _And yet_, Rachel had told them that she had promised not to come after them and he had _seen_ how she looked at Tim – his money would have been on him being safe. _Then again that wasn't taking into account the psychopathic uncle. _

His eyes found the female figure walking on a converging course to the courthouse out of habit, and took in the details with appreciation even while his brain was busy with his puzzle. The leather jacket didn't really go with the tailored slacks and well fitting, white blouse that it hung open over the top of. Nor did the large haversack hanging carelessly over one shoulder; the other hand was holding a tube – like what artists carried their easels in. She jogged up the steps in the front of the building and part of his brain left the puzzle to appreciate the movement of her bust with the movement – tracing up her neck to where a smile was teasing around her lips underneath a large set of sunglasses.

Raylan's mind gave a slow whistle – the woman was something, _Liv Tyler model_ he decided and slowed his steps slightly to take in the rear view. She was tall – still several inches shorter than he, but certainly taller than most women – and she was lean. _Some type of athlete_ he figured, noting how smoothly she walked, _not a marathon type_ he continued, seeing that there was still roundness to her form, retaining her femininity. He admired her neck, its length accentuated by the piling of her dark hair on the top of her head, the mass held by a glittering pin. The woman made it to the door and reached out, holding the door open for an elderly lady, returning a smile and a quiet 'you're welcome' at that lady's thanks. She slid the glasses off her eyes to the top of her head and stepped in through the door.

Raylan's feet continued walking for another two steps before realisation struck. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed and dropped the coffees. He reached for his weapon and dived for the door, turning to his side as someone pushed past him.

"Marion Arnold!" he yelled, catching glimpse of her walking towards the security gates. "Marion Arnold!"

A woman noticed his drawn gun and she screamed. Others turned – there were more screams and then there was panic as people who could rushed back into the courthouse, as those who hadn't cleared security tried to push through and the security guards yelled at them to get back. People rushed left and right without any noticeable pattern to actually vacate the area, knocking into each other and some fell. They scrambled, or were dragged, to their feet and within half a minute the area was clear – leaving the one figure standing _like the proverbial rock _in the middle of the room.

Marion paused, staring at the security guards who had recognised Raylan and copied his action and were now pointing guns in her direction. "Deputy Givens," she answered, still keeping the guards under surveillance but watching as Raylan entered her peripheral vision and then came ahead of her – putting himself in between her and the guards.

"Whatcha doing here Miss Arnold?" he asked, his gun pointed at her and his eyes taking a much more professional assessment of her figure. The pants could hide an ankle holster and there was enough room behind the jacket for a gun. Even the pin in her hair could do some damage in her hands.

"I was in the area," she shrugged. "Thought I might pop in for a few moments."

"Well I'm sure that the Chief will be delighted," he observed.

Marion smiled. "I wasn't really aiming for the Chief, deputy," she said with irony.

"Maybe not – but he's the one you'll be seeing," stated Raylan.

"So you're not going to shoot me then?" she queried.

"Not if I don't have to," he replied. "The cleaners get annoyed when we make a mess – especially in the foyer."

Marion's smirked in appreciation. "You think you could get your deputies there to lower their guns? I don't want to scare them here."

Raylan's nose twitched. "Lower your weapons boys," he instructed. He heard the grumbling behind him. "Mine is staying right on her."

Marion watched the other weapons being lowered and then looked straight back at Raylan. Slowly, and carefully, she reached out the hand with the tube and lowered herself to place it on the floor. She left that hand out and shrugged the bag off the other shoulder, letting it slide down her arm and placing it gently on the floor. She moved both hands up above her head and took three steps back before kneeling on the ground, crossing her ankles.

Raylan moved swiftly, planting a foot on her ankles firmly enough that she grimaced slightly. He left one hand on his weapon while he reached forward with the other, running his hand up each of her sides, along her belly and the small of her back and then along each of her legs. His brows rose as he came up empty, he captured one of her wrists within his hand and holstered his weapon, taking out the cuffs from his belt and snapping them over one wrist before bringing her second hand down and cuffing that one too. "You're not carrying?"

"Walk into a courthouse illegally carrying weapons," she mocked. "That would get me a long way wouldn't it."

"And the bag – what's in that?" he demanded.

"Do I really strike you as the type who is in any need of virgins deputy?" she smirked as he lifted her to her feet, his hand firmly gripping the chain between her cuffs. He gave her a firm shove in the middle of the back. "Just clothes – mostly. It'll get through the metal detector anyway."

"Check those things out Walt," instructed Raylan to the nearest security guard. "Carefully," he added as he saw a slight tightening of the muscles of her neck. "Then bring them up to the office."

Marion's teeth gritted slightly as Walt picked up her belongings but walked calmly in front of Raylan through the metal detector (which naturally went off its head, but no-one stopped them), her eyes lit with amusement as people peeped around doors and then hurriedly disappeared. There was an elevator ready and she stepped in, turning obediently as Raylan moved behind her, his arm brushing her as he reached over to push the button for the relevant floor.

There was silence for a moment.

"Congratulations by the way," murmured Marion.

"I beg your pardon?" Raylan blinked and looked at what he could see of her face.

"On your new arrival," clarified Marion, turning slightly so she could make eye contact with him. "From all reports she is a beautiful and happy little girl."

"Thankyou," he replied, because manners were manners. "She takes after her mama, so I'm hoping she'll break the whole Givens cycle."

"Of self destruction?" she queried and got a inquiring frown. "Well as I understand it your father had numerous opportunities to set himself up differently, right down to the bitter end and you have to admit that you have a proclivity for getting yourself into messes."

"You've been talking to Boyd too long," drawled Raylan.

"He _does_ have a wonderful way of talking doesn't he," grinned Marion. "Did he swallow a thesaurus as a child or what?"

"I don't know what he did," shrugged Raylan and tightened his grip as the elevator came to a stop. "So you don't deny that you spoke to Boyd?"

"About a year ago," she nodded. "In a fine establishment called Audreys I believe."

Raylan gave her a sideways glance – she lifted a challenging brow. "Right," he drawled and looked forward as the doors opened. He took half a step forward and caught a glimpse of two men exiting the Marshals' office. "Oh shit," he swore and pushed Marion sideways into the front corner of the elevator, covering her with his own body as he frantically pushed at buttons.

"Hold the elevator!" called a voice.

"Sorry!" called out Raylan as he finally convinced the elevator to close the doors and start descending. "Wrong button!" He heaved a sigh of relief and stepped back slightly, catching Marion's amused eyes as she flicked some escaping hair off her face. "Don't say it," he warned.

"Wouldn't dare Deputy," she murmured. She paused and then "thankyou," she added quietly.

"They'll find out sooner rather than later," he cautioned.

"I know. I just need some time," she replied.

Raylan's mouth opened, but the elevator pinged and he closed it again, looking carefully in the corridor over the top of the people waiting for the elevator before disembarking. He guided Marion towards the stairs, leaning over the rail to look up the floors and nodding in satisfaction at not seeing the FBI before starting her up the flight. He came around the corner, heading for the second flight. "Aw hell," he groaned as a robed figure caught sight of them.

"Raylan!" exclaimed a jovial voice. "Raylan!" the tone was insistent and reluctantly Raylan came to a halt, tightening his grip on Marion's wrists and pulling her close in to his body as he turned a bright smile onto the approaching party.

"Judge Reardon," he said in as upbeat a voice as he could find. "sorry – can't stay."

"This the cause of the kafuffle downstairs?" demanded the judge, his eyes running over Marion's figure.

"It is yes sir," replied Raylan, feeling Marion stiffen under the scrutiny and suddenly aware of how her hands being held behind her back was stretching her blouse. "Judge Reardon – this is Marion Arnold, Marion – this is Judge Reardon."

"Well well," Reardon's gaze became more acute. "So you're the famous Serpent are you?" he snorted derogatively.

Marion snorted. "Bloody yanks."

"What was that missy?" demanded the judge, leaning in.

"It's _Taipan _you fat arsehole, not The fucking Serpent," snarled Marion insolently.

"What?" Reardon looked back at her. "What's that meant to mean?"

"Taipan," she repeated witheringly. "One of the most poisonous snakes in Australia – aggressive too – you piss it off and the bastard will chase you down just to bite you." (1)

The Judge's eyes widened slightly as Marion leaned in towards him and snapped her teeth at him – Raylan gave a slight tug on the chain and she straightened back up again, arrogance oozing out of every pore.

"What I wouldn't give to get you in my courtroom," mused Reardon in tones mixed with regret and anticipation.

"Sorry _your honour_," she shrugged. "Red budgie smugglers don't do that much for me. You'll have to make do with your intern."

Raylan didn't know the term, but the context was clear and he gave another, firmer tug on the chain. Reardon however laughed, shaking his finger at her "I can see why he likes you". He frowned suddenly, looking at Raylan. "Why didn't you use the elevator?"

"Too dangerous," tried Raylan, "to have her in such close proximity of all those people."

Reardon's brows rose, not even glancing around the crowed corridor. Marion made a hissing noise.

"Excuse me sir," Raylan added hastily and bodily shoved Marion through one of the judge's assistants and onto the stares. "Done making friends now?" he groused in her ear as they walked up the stairs.

"It's a talent," she chuckled. She took several steps in silence. "When he said 'he likes you' was he referring to…."

"Tim?" Raylan prompted into the silence, slightly surprised by the uncertainty in her voicce. "Yes he was."

"Everyone knows?" she whispered.

"Knows what?" asked Raylan, glancing again at her face, but she was keeping her face directly forward and he wasn't able to even attempt to read her. Out of curiosity he continued. "They know that you and Tim were _involved_ yes – the FBI didn't really go about their business quietly." _They don't know what a mess your 'death' made of Tim _he added silently while waiting for some type of reaction. There was none though. "Ready?" he asked as they came to the office doors and reached around her to open the doors.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Yes – slightly gratuitous cliffhanger, but 5427 words is long enough for one chapter.

I know ratching isn't a word – but I couldn't think of one that quite epitomised the sound of a shotgun.

(1) Apparently the inland taipan is generally shy but the coastal taipan can be quite aggressive when cornered and _will_ actively defend itself. However, having had the good fortune never to encounter one, I don't know that Marion's description of the aggressiveness of the snake is _entirely_ accurate and it should be considered an exaggeration for theatrical effect. Really – it is quite safe to come and visit.


	18. Chapter 18

I am soooo sorry for the humungous delay since the last chapter. I sort of got distracted by real life. Planning to devote some serious time to this fic from now on to tie it up into a nice neat bow.

Chapter 18

The side wall vibrated with the force of the door being slammed against it. Art walked forward and closed the door with exaggerated gentleness, watching the FBI agents storm through the office towards the elevator for a moment before heading back to his desk. "Well that was fun."

"It wasn't her Chief," insisted Tim. He heard how his voice still vibrated with anger and he gritted his teeth, clenching his hands around the back of the couch that he had lounged on while pretending to be completely unaffected by the FBI's bluster. They had threatened him again, insinuating that he must know something for Marion to come out of hiding to try and kill him. His declarations that it hadn't been her had set them back only for a short time, just long enough to look professional by demanding who else he might have pissed off enough to be made a target. Boyd Crowder had been an obvious potential, but once finding out that Raylan and Rachel had been dispatched to talk to him the FBI agents had returned to the discussion of Marion. They had wanted to take Tim with them – to keep him under surveillance (i.e. use him as bait) but Art – having seen the small twitch above Tim's right eye – had reminded them that the Marshals were actually pretty good at the whole protecting gig, since they had been in charge of the WitSec programme for about 40 years. Agent Rudic had been on the cusp of mentioning the security breakdown around Winston but caught sight of the glint in Art's eye and had wisely decided to swallow the point – the FBI had come out covered in something other than glory by the time _that_ enquiry had finished.

Rachel had walked into the office part way through the arguments; she had kept her answers brief and to the point as she had stated unequivocally that Boyd had not set the bomb. Tim had sensed something was wrong, that something else had happened, but all she gave him was a slight headshake. _Hell Raylan_ he had thought with more than a touch of exasperation knowing that trouble almost always seemed to arise whenever Raylan crossed the county line and that a meeting with Boyd just increased the odds. The thought was followed by guilt – because it was due to him that Raylan had crossed the county line – where he least wanted to be after the whole Drew Thompson episode.

"They seem pretty damn convinced," said Art, moving back in front of his desk and handing over a tumbler with a more than generous amount of the last of the 200year old bourbon that lived in his drawer.

"They're idiots," dismissed Tim, letting the first sip of alcohol and the silence of Art's office start to ease the tenseness in his muscles. He was aching from deep muscle bruising after the explosion and while his head had been fine this morning when he had been delivered to work, an anvil sized throb had started somewhere in the midst of the shouting and the empty end of the couch was actually starting to look inviting.

"They are," agreed Art affably, taking a sip from his glass. "However they do have a point. Miss Arnold is really the only one that jumps to mind as having an issue with you – given that Boyd is out of the frame?" He looked to Rachel, seeking confirmation.

Tim frowned as Rachel hesitated, looking up to the bull pen as if waiting for someone. _That wasn't like her _he thought and his stomach dropped a bit. He found her eyes on him – direct like normal. "I saw her there."

Tim's stomach hit the floor, his hand lowered to his lap.

"Who?" he heard Art asked, not making the connection straight away. "Miss Arnold?"

"We interrupted her talking to Boyd," continued Rachel, giving Art a glance only before looking back at Tim. "She went out the back – rode away on a motorbike before I could get to her."

"Well shit," concluded Art and took a large swallow of bourbon. "Who would have thought that the FBI might be right about something?"

"It wasn't her," repeated Tim, but something inside of him had suddenly gone cold. _She wouldn't, would she?_

"Then what was she doing at Boyd's?" asked Rachel reasonably. "Look – I understand that you don't want to believe that it could be her Tim – but really, what do you know about her?" she shrugged. "We have to hand that memory card over to the FBI."

The memory of her face that night, _before,_ when she had realised that he had had the memory card all that time and hadn't used it, came to him. "No," barked Tim, his certainty slipping back into place. _She wouldn't_.

"Tim," Rachel set her own, barely touched, glass down and gave him her 'this is serious' look. "She tried to kill you – she thinks you're the only link between her two identities."

"No," repeated Tim, forestalling any more argument from Rachel. He looked up at her, a slight smile on his lips as he remembered the rest of _that_ night. "No; she doesn't."

Rachel blinked and Art's mouth dropped open. "What exactly does that mean Tim?"

Tim shrugged. "She knows that we have the memory card."

"You told her?" Rachel exclaimed.

Tim nodded. "When she came for her gun," he added casually.

Both Rachel and Art were silent for a moment. "You found it?" exclaimed Art and Tim nodded slowly. "Hah! Twenty thousand FBI hours and they don't come up with shit and one US Marshal by himself finds it." Scenarios of glory wafted before his eyes for a moment, then his face sobered and he looked sharply at Tim. "When was this?"

Tim shrugged. "Bit more than 6 months ago."

"What?!" all but shouted Art and Tim winced slightly with the sharp jab of pain through his temple. Art lowered his volume a little. "And where is it now?"

Tim winced a little again, deliberately not looking at his boss or colleague.

"You let her take it didn't you?" realised Rachel after a pause.

Again Tim nodded.

"Well goddamn Tim," burst out Art. "I didn't even get enough time to appreciate the glory of the US Marshal service – let alone rub the FBI's faces into it. Why the hell would you give it back to her?"

"It was her father's gun," returned Tim simply, glancing up.

Art blinked, opened his mouth and shut it again. He tipped his glass and frowned when he found it empty. Rachel held out hers and he drained it in one gulp. "Son – I don't know how well that is going to fly when she kills someone else with it."

"She won't," replied Tim. "I told her that the barrel might have rusted and it would probably misfire."

"She won't buy that," stated Rachel firmly.

"She did," he looked up, then tipped his head slightly ruefully. "But she's got a new gun."

"And you know that how?" demanded Art.

"I didn't get a postcard from New Orleans," smiled Tim. _She did have a sense of decency after all._

"Postcard?" Art's voice broke in the middle of the word. "Tim – have you been in contact with Miss Arnold?"

Tim pulled a face. "Well – I get an occasional postcard – there's never anything written on it though so I'm only guessing it's her." _That was glossing over a few details_ he knew; the first postcard had been on the Arnold's website advertising a new range of Mexican landscapes and all but had her signature on it. The others since then hadn't been so obvious, but she had never been one to labour the point.

"And why would she do that?" demanded Art.

Tim shrugged, drinking the rest of the bourbon and standing, a slight smile tipping at the edge of his lips. "Just to let me know that she is still alive."

"Tim," started Art is his best son-I-feel-for-you-but voice.

Tim turned, ready to let the lecture wash over him, and noticed Art staring with disbelief, which morphed into resignation, at the main door. He turned further and his body froze, his heart all but skipped a beat and he forgot how to breathe.

_What the hell are you doing? _Tim's thoughts paralleled Art's groan of "Hell Raylan, what have you done now?" but he wasn't thinking of Raylan. Dimly he heard Rachel give a slight gasp as she saw the pair walking, well Marion was being walked, in the door. She was on edge, her normal glide was slightly stiff, her back was ramrod straight, pulling her blouse tight across her bust; her hair was longer again, not quite the mass when he had first met her, but certainly enough to give him a handful – his blood warmed with the thought and his lips tilted a little. His brain registered the 'we are in the shit now' expression in Raylan's eyes as he looked at Art and the latter's astonished glance towards him before he turned back to the pair at the door – but he didn't pay any attention as her eyes, sweeping the room as soon as she entered, finally found his. His hand clenched, there was a sharp pain in his palm and a slight cracking sound – Rachel made a slight sound of reproof or frustration (he wasn't sure which) but he kept his gaze on Marion's as she walked closer to him. Then Raylan moved slightly and his body broke between their gaze and Tim blinked. He turned suddenly.

"No," stated Art firmly, holding out his hand.

Tim came within a couple of centimetres of Art's hand, but habit was habit and Art had used his 'order' voice so he stopped.

"You stay," continued Art, waiting for a moment to see that his words had had an effect. "Rachel."

Tim felt Rachel's hand touch his arm, felt how his muscles were vibrating by the stillness of her hand. "Tim," she said in a low voice and looked down to see her hand prising his own apart, removing the broken shards of the tumbler from his hand. He held his hand up, watching with disinterest as the blood welled out of the shallow cuts in his palm, listening.

"Good morning Miss Arnold," he heard Art say amiably.

"Good morning Chief Deputy," he heard her pleasant reply as Raylan directed her into the conference room and then into a seat.

"What the hell?" demanded Art in a lowered voice as Raylan returned to the doorway, keeping his hand on his gun and his side vision of her, despite the fact that she had her hands cuffed behind her back and was lounging (somewhat uncomfortably Tim suspected) with her long legs out before her.

"She just walked straight in the building," said Raylan, his voice just carrying to Tim. "Put down her bags and let me cuff her as soon as I called her."

"What was she doing?" queried Art. Tim felt something pressed into his hand and glanced down to see Rachel pushing a handful of tissues against his hand. He gave her a quick smile of thanks and closed his hand over the bundle, feeling the tinge as the cuts came into contact with the material.

Raylan shrugged. "I _think_ – coming up here."

"Just like that?" blinked Art and again Raylan shrugged. "Well shit," Art rubbed at his head. "What the fuck do we do now?"

"We should hand her over to the FBI," suggested Raylan and except for the tone of his voice Tim would have moved – Rachel laid her hand on his arm as a precaution. Art apparently gave a glance that was enough of an answer and Raylan continued. "Or we could just have a sit down with her and find out what she's doing."

"You searched her?"

Raylan nodded. "She's clean – her bags are being checked and then they'll be brought up here."

Tim could almost hear Art's mind ticking over; he would know that he should ring the FBI; that they wouldn't have got far; that he should hand her over. But Tim knew that he had a powerful curiosity about this woman; how she had managed to make a connection with his sniper marshal, the one who used sass and sarcasm to hide any real evidence of feelings. Tim was unsure himself _how_ it had happened, but it was something he was sure of. He wasn't sure what she was doing in the office though.

"It's almost lunch time – we'll call them after," Art's voice interrupted his thought. "Keep an eye on her," Art instructed, and Tim straightened to focus on his boss as he returned to the room.

"Rachel – in with Raylan please," instructed Art. She hesitated, glancing once up at Tim, but then moved out.

Tim stayed still as Art closed the door and looked at him. "Son – I don't know what she's doing here, but she is a federal fugitive. I have to hand her over to the FBI – you know that don't you?" Tim gave a short sharp nod _he understood that_. "However I want to know what she knows about that bomb so I'm going to have a conversation with her. But then I _am_ calling the FBI – you understand?" Again Tim nodded _again, he understood that._ Art apparently began to feel a little more confident. "I'm therefore going to recommend that you stay out of this one Tim – let us handle it."

"No," stated Tim, his eyes snapping to Art's. _Not a fucking chance._

Art grimaced. "You don't want to think about your decision a little more? You sounded a bit uncertain," he said sarcastically.

Tim's lips smirked slightly. "I'm coming in Chief."

"Well ok then," Art accepted the inevitable. "Since it was only a recommendation I don't have to discipline you for ignoring an order." He opened the door and flourished – Tim strode through the door and into the conference room (Art shrugged as Raylan raised his brows _you stop him_ and received a quirk of his lips in acknowledgement) and planted himself against the window, half across from where Marion sat. She lifted her head slightly and met his gaze.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

_Focus Marion, focus_ thought Marion, dragging her eyes back to the front as the Chief Deputy pulled out a seat in front of her. Getting seen at the Crowder place had been a bad mistake, one that her uncle would be certain to mention ad nauseum – but coming into this building was a whole new level; Marion took a deep breath. _He was going to kill her. _But she was having difficulty focusing; she could feel _his_ gaze on her, _his_ blue eyes all but piercing her with intensity. That same intensity had trapped her own gaze as soon as she walked into the room, the connection had made her flinch – so much so that she had felt Raylan's grip tighten on her elbow, whether to catch her from falling or whether because he thought she was making a run for it she didn't know. It had been enough to break the spell, to remind her that she had all but literally entered into the lion's den and she had to be paying attention – but she had kept looking at him regardless. He didn't appear to be badly injured, she _knew _that from the medical report, but he was pale and looked drawn _like he had a massive headache_. Then he had smiled at her and her blood had warmed.

_Focus,_ she took a breath. "You'll forgive me if I don't offer to shake your hand Chief," she said affably and jingled the cuffs slightly.

"Of course," he nodded. "You'll forgive me if I don't have them taken off – given that you just tried to kill one of my deputies."

Marion noticed a slight stiffening of the figure at the window but resisted the temptation to look at him, keeping her eyes steady. "I have never tried to kill anyone in my life Chief," she kept her tone even, with no emphasis on any words so that he almost missed her meaning. She saw his realisation in a slight widening of his eyes a moment later and felt a wave of satisfaction.

He stared at her for a moment and then leant forward. "Let's cut the bullshit shall we? While it's only us who know what happened at Redbud."

Marion's smile faded with the second part of his comment, gritting her teeth, hearing a threat in the words. _Fuck._

"Marion."

The word was low, only just above a whisper but she had no trouble hearing it. She flashed her eyes to meet his eyes. _Calm down_ they said to her, _please_. She became aware of how she had leaned forward slightly, how her eyes had become harder, how her muscles had tensed in a flight or fight response. She turned her gaze back to the Chief _he cares about Tim _she realised, seeing the suggestion of anger in the chief's eyes. She took a deep breath and relaxed back in her chair, forcing her body to untense and letting her face slip back into a slightly mocking smile. "Ok," she agreed. "No bullshit."

Art smiled in satisfaction, but then caught sight of the glare that Rachel was directing his way. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing here?"

"One week ago, a contract on Deputy Gutterson's life was issued," she responded matter of factly.

"A week ago?" noted Raylan with some surprise in his voice.

"It came to my attention yesterday morning," clarified Marion turning her head only slightly to project her answer his way. "There was a general perception that it was in my best interest not to be made aware of the contract," she added coldly. _That perception had been corrected_. "It is not a massive contract, but neither is it insignificant. There were originally eight expressions of interest – there are now three."

"Why?" asked Art.

Marion just smiled.

"Because Miss Arnold expressed an interest," said Rachel from behind her.

Marion shrugged, giving the deputy a glance over her shoulder. "One would like to think that one's reputation is not exactly trivial, and that perhaps the fate of Carlos and Miguel had some bearing on the issue – but that may just be vanity."

"Who are they?" asked Art.

Marion crinkled her nose, considering. _They were warned_ she decided. "Two I know," she stated. "Sean Montgomery; quite young as far as the profession goes but effective. He's basically a paid serial killer; he likes to get up close and personal – likes to see the whites of his target's eyes, get their blood on his hands." She didn't attempt to hide her disgust _man liked to play with his food_. "Rupert Bond is the other one – and yes he did try the whole 007 as a code name for a while – he is more diverse, sometimes he uses guns, sometimes he uses knives, has been known to poison on the occasion."

"And the third?" prompted Art.

Marion flicked her eyes back to him. "I don't know," she replied simply. "I am presuming that he is a bit of a rookie still, needs to make a successful hit before he will actually announce himself. You look pretty stupid in the community if you say you're going to kill someone and you don't," she added in explanatory tones at Art's slight frown. "I reckon that he was the one who set the bomb – I don't see either Monty or Ruup trying that - they certainly wouldn't have messed it up."

"Messed it up?" repeated Art. "Another five yards and Tim would have been splattered like a spilt tin of tomato soup."

"Exactly," she nodded and Art blinked. "Why set the bomb to go off before it was sure that he was in the car – set it to the ignition, first gear even. To set it for a signal from the key...," she shook her head. "It's just sloppy, too much chance of collateral damage."

"Maybe he wasn't worried about collateral damage," suggested Art.

Marion snorted derisively. "As I said – he's a rookie. Collateral damage is what gets you caught," she added. "A good kill? It's clean, it's random and even better it looks natural. You're out of there before anyone has noticed that the target is down." She shook her head again. "A bomb? Here in the carpark? All it did was attract a whole heap of attention and get Ti... Deputy Gutterson locked up tight. He's made the job harder – unless of course he has a way in here."

"Not possible," Art shook his head. "You need clearance to get into here, at the very least you have to pass the security scan."

Marion cocked a brow. "Perhaps you should tell Miss Parkes that the computer technician won't be coming today." She smiled as Art's eyes widened, unable to resist glancing up at Tim to meet his amused eyes before looking back at Art. "And if you give me a phone I will make her problems disappear so she doesn't need one anymore."

"How is Winston?" asked Tim mildly from the window.

Marion looked up again at him. "Who?" she grinned and saw him snort a little.

Art was frowning, obviously still deciphering the significance of the Marshals' missing witness and his office's computer issues when there was a knock on the door. Raylan turned, his hand on his weapon but he recognised the security guard and opened the door. "Hey Walt," he greeted him easily.

"Raylan," replied Walt, pulling Marion's bag off his shoulder as he stepped into the room. "We scanned it and searched through it - there's nothing there," he said and tossed Marion's bag onto the table.

The bag landed with a solid thump and Marion bit her lip; her eyes widened briefly as she saw the tube about to be given the same treatment. Tim moved slightly but Raylan had noticed both the snipers' reactions and reached forward and took the tube out of Walt's hand.

"Thanks for that Walt," he said as the guard looked at him in slight confusion and gave him a smile.

"Sure thing," said Walt slowly, turning away from Art's smile to look at Raylan. He saw the door being held open for him and his smile slipped a little, his glance at Marion was a mix of curiosity and regret and Marion bit her lip.

"Why thankyou Deputy Givens" said another voice and Marion turned again, her eyes narrowing as she recognised AUSA Vasquez slipping through the half closing door. She noted Raylan's rueful glance to Art and felt a slight tinge of unease.

"David, how good to see you," greeted Art in what didn't even meet Marion's definition of a genuine tone and she bit back a smile. "How can we help you? I'm pretty sure that Raylan hasn't been shooting anyone, or even sleeping with anyone that he shouldn't be recently."

Vasquez obviously heard the bite in the words as well but his smile was in appreciation. "Well while I am sure that must be a nice change for you, my life doesn't actually revolve around Deputy Givens' indiscretions. I actually met Judge Reardon in the hallway on my way to lunch."

Raylan grimaced. "We met him in the hallway and he and Miss Arnold _bonded_," he offered in explanation.

Marion almost heard Tim's eye roll and she shrugged.

"She certainly made an impression on him," observed Vasquez and Marion started to like him. He placed his briefcase on the table and took a place next to Art. "He wanted to make sure that she didn't escape the Marshal service again."

"I don't think Miss Arnold is going anywhere," said Art placidly. "We were just having a bit of a chat."

"Oh?" Vasquez raised his brows. "What about?"

"Who was responsible for the bomb yesterday" returned Art as if it was startling news. "Miss Arnold informs us that she had nothing to do with it."

"And you believe her?" Vasquez's voice was sharp.

Marion met Art's eyes steadily as he turned to her.

"Actually I think I might," Art said slowly and Marion took a breath.

"Well that is inconvenient," sighed Vasquez. "Judge Reardon wants me to have her arrested,"

Marion straightened, her hands clenching behind her.

"On what charge?" demanded Raylan.

Vasquez shrugged. "Well failing your opinion on her being responsible for the bomb - there's still an outstanding warrant for escaping federal custody."

"But Mr Vasquez" protested Marion sweetly. "There was a gun held on me, I was forced to leave that ambulance."

"I am familiar with your uncle's lawyers' arguments Miss Arnold," retorted Vasquez with a touch of asperity. "And since the Harlan County hospital mysteriously received several new ambulances and an MRI machine the witnesses to the contrary have dropped to one," he commented dryly with a glance at Rachel. "But she is a high quality witness, so I am obligated to give it a go. And in front of Judge Reardon I think I might just have a chance."

_A damn good bloody chance_ thought Marion bitterly. She could already hear the diatribe that her uncle was going to launch at her, either through the screen of the prison or back at home if his very experienced lawyers did manage to get her out. She managed to keep a mocking tilt to her smile though as she looked at the attorney. "Really Mr Vasquez – that is the best you can go with?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Depends what you have in that bag I suppose."

"It's already been searched," she retorted with a confidence that she didn't feel.

"Uh-huh," he said doubtfully and stood, reaching for the bag.

"Hey – that has my underwear in it!" she protested, the handcuffs jangling as she moved halfway out of her seat.

Despite himself Vasquez paused. Raylan planted a hand on Marion's shoulder and pushed her back into her chair. He reached out with the other hand and slid the bag towards the edge of the table; with a slight smirk Tim pushed himself off the wall and unzipped it. He looked in the top of the bag and looked up, raising his brows – Marion rolled her eyes but didn't protest any further (_really what was the point_) and he grinned, pushing the lacy items to the side as he thoroughly searched the bag.

"Well Deputy?" prompted Vasquez.

"Nothing much," Tim replied. "Some lady's unmentionables, couple pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, a pair of what I call flip flops and she calls thongs, toiletries." He shrugged. "Nothing overly exciting."

"Deputy," repeated Vasquez reprovingly.

Tim looked at Marion briefly then lifted the bag and dropped it again - Marion flinched at the solid thunk and Tim's brows rose. He dove back into the bag, pushing the clothes to the side of the bag and felt around the edge. He gave a slow whistle as he found the false bottom. "And we have what appears to be a lead lined section with a Beretta Px4 Storm, a Glock 23 and a Smith and Weston _360PD_." He placed the weapons on the table as he identified them, giving Marion a raised brow as he pulled the last small weapon out of the bag. She shrugged _it was easy to conceal and up close did enough damage_. "Plus several spare clips for each weapon and a couple of very effective looking blades," continued Tim after a pause, continuing to unload the bag.

"And in the tube we have?" he mused, reaching for it. He popped the top and looked in, frowning slightly at the edges of paper.

"Fuck," Marion swore lightly and then sighed, "other end." He put the lid back on, spinning the tube. The lid at that end was a bit harder; it took him several moments to see how it unscrewed a half a turn before he could then pop it off. He gave another slow whistle and looked over at her, despite herself (and the situation) Marion gave a half grin back at him, thinking he was something like a kid on Christmas as he pulled first the rifle butt out, then the barrel and then the scope and firing mechanism. "And here we have an XM2010ESR – customised by the look of it because they don't normally come apart like this," he snapped the pieces together as he was talking, throwing it up to his shoulder and aiming it through the back wall.

"You don't get to keep it," remarked Art dryly and Tim lowered it with a smirk and packed the rest of the weapons back into the bag.

"You have a license to carry those weapons in the USA Miss Arnold?" asked Art rhetorically.

Marion pulled a face, giving Tim a mild glare - to which he returned a sweet smile that made her belly bubble.

"Well I think that will give the Hammer more than enough to work with to get you behind bars for at least a short time Miss Arnold," said Vasquez with some satisfaction. "Take her to lockup" he ordered.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Basic google search gave me those weapon names – chose the handguns purely on their silhouette and the sniper rifle on its date of issue.


	19. Chapter 19

Sorry, sorry I know I said I wouldn't keep you hanging on for such a long period again – and I did. This did take longer than I thought. Upside though – part of the reason I took longer because I wanted to get a few chapters ready to go – was actually aiming for the end of the story but didn't there (*sigh* real life). Do have a couple of chapters racked up for you though and will post them periodically – hopefully as I continue writing the remainder of this fic (yes, we are within about 5 chapters of the end). Hope it is worth the wait.

Chapter 19

"This is bullshit," Marion burst out, pushing the chair backwards with a screech as she stood. She threw the handcuffs to the table and leant forward, her voice scathing. "Do you seriously think Deputy Gutterson couldn't have been taken out anytime Mr Vasquez? Or that Deputy Brooks couldn't already have been a corpse?" She snorted. "Fuck do you think that she wasn't _invited_ to take out the cowboy during his little argument with Quarles? Why the _hell_ do you think I walked in here?"

Part of her was satisfied with the reaction – the chorus of voices ceased immediately and both Vasquez and Art all but threw themselves back in their chairs, looking up at her wide eyed.

"Woah woah woah," exclaimed Raylan from behind her. "Firstly - how did the hell did you do _that_?"

"What?" she snapped, turning her head to him and blinking as she saw that while one hand was pointed to the handcuffs on the table, the other was holding his weapon at his thigh. She turned her head and saw that Rachel had gone one step further and actually had the gun pointed at her. She turned her head back to Tim, seeing that he too had moved; his weapon was still holstered, but he had stepped forward as if ready to tackle her over the table. Her eyes narrowed. "Proportionally big wrists," she retorted. "Unless they're put on tight enough to take off skin I can get my hands through them."

"Good to know," murmured Tim just loud enough for her to hear, dropping his eyes slightly then lifted back to hers. "Won't make the same mistake next time," he added with a little bit of warmth.

She followed his gaze to where her blouse was billowing out, giving him a full view of all that was under it, and looked up with widened eyes. He gave a slight smirk and she stood abruptly, swallowing at the sudden flaring in her belly. He read her eyes and stepped back half a step; Rachel lowered her weapon at his movement.

"And what was that about being invited to kill _me_?" persisted Raylan.

Marion gave him another glance. "Detroit had a thing for you Deputy Givens – they weren't picky who dealt with their problem at the time."

"But you didn't take it?" observed Vasquez.

"Mr Vasquez," she protested mildly, looking down at him. "I am a _photographer_."

Vasquez snorted a little but was ready to play the game. "Your er…. _friend_ then, The Serpent, didn't take the contract then?"

"It's _Taipan_," corrected Raylan in benefactoral tones with a gesture of his hand.

Tim's lips twitched slightly (_focus Marion!)_ but Marion just gave Vasquez a look of distain. "He's alive isn't he?"

"Why not?" asked Vasquez curiously as Raylan blinked and Art ducked his head to hide his grin.

"Theo Tonin and my uncle have an arrangement," she said the first name in contemptuous tones. "Detroit stays out of Arnold business and Arnolds stay out of Detroit business. Besides," she shrugged. "The contract was worth shit."

Tim and Art enjoyed that, Raylan rolled his eyes.

"So why exactly _are_ you here Miss Arnold," Vasquez returned to the subject.

"Deputy Gutterson has two of the best assassins in the business after him," replied Marion. She hesitated, unsure of Vasquez where she hadn't been worried about the Marshals and glanced up at Tim despite herself. He looked back at her seriously, dipping his eyes to Vasquez briefly before lifting back to her and giving her a short nod. _He's ok _his eyes said, but a habit of a lifetime was hard to break and her blood was still pumping. She planted her shoulders against the glass of the wall _setting up a great crossfire issue between Rachel and Raylan _and crossed her arms. "I came to help."

"How?" demanded Art as Vasquez's eyes all but disappeared into his brows.

"It's better if you don't know," she replied, her tones giving a hint of professional coldness.

"No deal," Vasquez shook his head, crossing his arms across his chest. "I won't have bodies littering the streets of Lexington."

_Three hardly constitutes littering _she thought sardonically but her voice was hard. "Mr Vasquez – do you really think I can be any use what-so-ever operating within the boundaries of the law?"

Vasquez exchanged a glance with Art, then turned back to Marion. "How exactly do you think we might use you then?"

"Loosely," she retorted shortly. "Let me run my own pattern around you – I know how these buggers work, I should be able to see where they're coming from. Look," she leaned forward as she saw the doubt in his eyes, "this is my world – the only reason I came in was so that you didn't shoot me if you did happen to catch sight of me again," she gave a glance to Rachel who smiled slightly.

There was silence and she studied the two men – Art she thought was able to appreciate the shades of grey, but she wasn't confident of Vasquez – _he's not buying it_.

"Mr Vasquez," said Art, standing, "do you feel like a drink?"

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ Marion closed her eyes and dropped her head back to the window behind her, trying to get her pulse under control as, with a glance at her Vasquez followed Art out of the room. _Calm down, think_. The plan had seemed so simple to start with: come down to Kentucky and find Ruup and Monty; figure out who the other hitter was; kill the bastards and return without Tim being any the wiser. Then she'd been seen by Rachel and she knew that they'd be distracted by her from the others so she has changed her plan, she had come to meet them, to reassure them – _him_ – that she wasn't part of it (well that was what she allowed herself to think was the reason). Meeting Raylan on the way in, getting cuffed and catching Reardon's attention – _that_ had not been part of the plan.

_You are going to gaol_ announced a somewhat satisfied internal voice. _And he won't help you_. He had made that more than clear – "you walk out that door and you don't walk back. You're on your own Marion." It had hurt her, but she had walked out. She wasn't about to let Tim get killed, she simply _couldn't_. Her uncle hadn't understood; _hell he must be a bloody good fuck_ he had been deliberately crude, much to Craig's amusement and her mortification. She had all but fled with Craig's laughter in her ears and tears in her eyes.

There was a click of a door and she dragged in a breath _calm down – think_ and opened her eyes to the only other person in the room, who was studying her. Her analytical brain knew the way out was through him – her cousin would say to take him hostage, her uncle would say to exploit his desire for her. And then he smiled at her and brain was no longer in control as a third suggestion presented itself; _trust him_.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Tim smirked a little at Raylan's parting glance which very clearly told him to 'behave' – as if he was going to throw Marion over the table and bury himself in her over and over and over until she screamed out in passion. _Shit_ he adjusted his stance a little as his body took that thought with it and ran with it, turning to look at the woman against the wall.

_He had been close to losing her;_ her use of the word 'she' when talking about her alter ego hadn't escaped him. Her body had hardened, her stance – her _whole _demeanour – had changed; her eyes had hardened into ice and all hints of laughter had disappeared; she had morphed into a killer (1). He had got her back from the edge but now as he allowed his eyes to dwell on the high cheekbones, the tendrils of hair wisping around her ears, the long lines of her neck and along the V of her blouse; he could still see hints of Taipan's persona about her. He saw her chest lift as she took a deep shuddering breath and moved his gaze to her eyes just as she looked up at him. "Hi," he said softly, trying to convey reassurance.

It took a moment; "hey," she replied and she smiled. It was a proper smile; no trace of sarcasm or mocking in her eyes, a genuine smile that lit her eyes up from the inside. With the smile she relaxed, dropping all hints of _her_ and becoming the woman he loved.

Tim blinked at the thought; _love?_ Almost immediately he knew he was right; he _did _love this woman, had for a while, maybe not when he first met her _another 'l' word applied for that sensation _but somewhere during dessert on that second night. And yet – as Rachel had pointed out, he hardly knew her. _No, that wasn't right _he caught his thought; he did _know_ this woman, in a way that he had never understood someone before he understood her. And yet he knew nothing about her – bar the bald details in her file. _They wouldn't pass the Greencard test_. "What's your favourite colour?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked, not unsurprisingly taken aback by the question. "Purple," she said in a slightly bemused tone. "Not the wishy washy lilacs and lavenders, although they can be pretty; the deep, full bodied purple – the royal purple," she expanded on the theme, looking at him curiously. "You?"

"Blue," replied Tim, shrugging in his blue shirt with a tease of a smile. "The first time I saw the ocean, during basic training, it was a stormy day, the ocean was a dark blue with lots of little white tops, the line of the horizon blurred. The sea air hit me in the face and I knew I was free." He was silent, remembering that feeling. "Your lucky number?"

"Pfft," she snorted. "Don't have one – did too much mathematics at school and learned too much about probabilities to bother playing Lotto. Although," she considered a little further and smiled a little. "Grandma always used to say '2468 dig in don't wait' when she put dinner on the table – I use that as a password quite often – maybe you could consider that my lucky number."

"18," said Tim. "Mom had a silver necklace that she was given on her 18th birthday – she used to wear it all the time. I can remember it from when I was young, hanging close to me." He smiled in memory. "What's your favourite music?"

Marion chuckled a little. "My music choices will confound the best profilers the FBI has. Depending on my mood I am listening to Medwyn Goodall, Star Wars or Lord of the Rings soundtracks, Eminem – Macklemore's new one has me at the moment. I don't mind a little country and western, Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, John Williams, The Wolverines – Dad and I used to listen to Johnny Horton when we were driving – I can do the Battle of New Orleans, Sink the Bismarc, the Alamo, Big Iron if I have the music. That'd be your sort of stuff as well wouldn't it?"

Tim laughed. "I _am_ from Kentucky – but Johnny Horton? _Please_.Although," he admitted. "I have been known to let loose with Dolly on the occasion."

"Dog or cat?" she asked, straightening a little and tucking her hands behind her backside against the wall.

"Dog," he said immediately. "I used to have a retriever – but I gave him away to one of my neighbours, she had more time for him."

"Hmm, me too – I like cats as individuals, but not as a species – they do too much damage to the wildlife. My best friend used to have a Siamese which was alright – didn't think a whole heap about the two rats she got later in life," she added in a teasing tone.

He laughed, seeing that she had now relaxed fully, and pushed off the wall and walked towards her.

Her eyes followed him, noting the slight stiffness, the tentativeness as he walked around the table, propping his rear end on the top opposite her and crossing his ankles out in front of him. "Headache?"

"All of the seven dwarves are mining for something in there," he admitted. He straightened slightly and uncrossed his legs as she pushed off the wall and moved to the front of him, he frowned slightly as she reached out to take one of his hands, taking the web between his thumb and forefinger between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed firmly. The sensation wasn't quite pain but it wasn't exactly pleasant and he opened his mouth.

"Better?" she asked, relaxing the pressure.

He blinked, the pain in his head _had_ decreased. "Much," he smiled, catching her hand as she made to pull it away, running his thumb over the slight graze where she had pulled off the handcuffs. "What about you?"

"They're nothing," she whispered, watching her hand in his.

"Not what I meant," he replied, still stroking her hand and feeling the slightly faster pulse in her wrist against his palm. "Have you figured a way out yet?"

She sniffed a chuckle. "Apart from throwing myself through the window and hoping I don't break too many bones on the landing?"

"Art will look after it," he told her earnestly, looking past her to where he could see Art in conversation with Vasquez, both Raylan and Rachel hovering. "And if he doesn't, I will."

"No," she shook her head. "I don't want you involved with it Tim."

"Is that why you weren't going to tell me you were here?" he asked.

As he expected her hand recoiled; his grip was soft but firm and his gaze was steady in her eyes. After a moment her hand relaxed and she gave a slight shrug, "I thought it was best."

"You did, did you?" he mused, maintaining eye contact. "Or was it your uncle?"

She snorted. "I believe my uncle spoke about you and a barge pole in the same sentence."

"We've had this conversation before," he said quietly.

"Well uncle and I had a whole different conversation," she replied.

It took him only a moment to decipher the bite in her tone; his eyes narrowed, "he doesn't know you're here?"

"He knows," she replied shortly.

_And didn't like it_ he realised. Part of him exulted that she had chosen him over her uncle, but he knew enough about her childhood to know that her uncle had been her only consistent influence, and how much he meant to her. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

She smiled at that, pulling her hand out of his and placing her hands either side of his face. He dropped his hands to her hips, pulling her forward between his legs as he allowed her to turn his face so that she could examine the bruise along his cheek bone where the flesh was also peppered with shallow cuts. "Too close," she murmured. He turned his face back to her, finding her close, and his eyes dropped to her lips. "Who have you pissed off Tim?" she asked, dropping her hands to his hips, her thighs warming holes through his jeans.

He swallowed to find some sort of voice again. "I could think of four possibilities," he said carefully. "Crowder was one," she was shaking her head, confirming Rachel's report. "your uncle was another."

Her eyes sharpened – but she bit back the immediate retort to give him some analytical thought. "No," she decided. "He doesn't have anything against you as such."

Tim had his doubts; he thought that Tony Arnold had a very specific issue with him – an issue that wouldn't get any better with Marion's presence here. But he trusted her judgement of him. "Your cousin?" he suggested.

"He does hate you," acknowledged Marion dryly. "But it is just his general hate of people who make his life harder – along with the parking officers, the IRS, customs, NYPD and the FBI. He wouldn't exert himself, let alone put his hand in his pocket. It was Craig who let it slip that there was a contract," she added. "And wishes he hadn't."

Privately Tim considered that Craig Arnold would be quite happy to see any conflict between his father and his cousin. He had the stereotypical chip on his shoulder of a man who had never quite met his father's expectations and resented the love that his cousin received – but it _was_ Craig who was running the business and Marion who was the killer for hire so it was clear to Tim that Tony Arnold honoured his son.

"I did consider Detroit," finished Tim, moving his hands slightly so that he tucked his thumbs into the top of her pants and his fingers draped over the curve of her backside. "After the whole Drew Thompson thing – but I was a minor character, surely they would take Raylan first?"

"Detroit is a whole new ballgame," Marion watched her hands as she moved them up over his waist and then onto his chest. "What with Nikki being dispatched, Theo _retiring_ and Sammy taking over. I really don't think that anyone associated with Drew Thompson is on their give-a-shit list. Besides," she shrugged, toying with some wisps of hair that peaked out of his collar, "why would they outsource? They have their own hitters." She shook her head, looking at him with evidence of frustration in her gaze. "You need to watch yourself until we figure it out."

"I'll make you a deal," he proposed, stopping her movement away from him with a slight pressure against her rear end. "I'll look after myself if you look after _yourself_." He moved one hand up along her side, finding the slight thickness where the bandage was; she flinched from reaction rather than any pain.

"What?" she whispered.

"Too close," he repeated her words.

She swallowed, her eyes narrowing. "Your FBI friend Judy must really fancy you," she said shortly.

He smiled – he had met Judy while still in the Rangers, she had been a field agent and was stationed in one of those middle of nowhere tent bases. She had been a leggy brunette with a great rack and one thing had led to another during one shared stint of R&R. They had raised the roof on more than one occasion, but both had been happy to admit that they had nothing beyond the physical and had parted as friends. Judy had worked her way up into an analyst position, he had continued in the snipers for another couple of years and then found her again when he had returned stateside and joined the Marshals. _She might still hold a torch for him but she had never pressed the issue.__ She had always been happy to help him on a case – for which she had been lucky to get back a window with an office after the whole Raylan thing with Sammy Tonin. _"The best I can figure there was the Toronto drug dealer, the Arizona coyote and the New Orleans jeweller," he explained and saw her eyes widen. "Just because I don't agree with your moral framework doesn't mean I don't understand it," he smiled at her.

"Don't you make me out to be something I'm not," she warned earnestly and his brow rose. "I didn't kill those men on high moral grounds – I killed them because I was paid a _lot_ of money to do it," she continued, all caution lost in her intensity. "The drug dealer died because his rival wanted his turf, the jeweller because his underage lover's parents couldn't deal with the idea that it was actually consensual."

"And the coyote?" he prompted. "Can't imagine that his victims would have that much money."

"You get twenty bucks from the relatives of 200 of the people he left in the desert because he raised the price or because they wouldn't fuck him and it adds up pretty quick," she said sarcastically.

He just smiled at her and her hands came up to his shoulders. "I'm no angel of mercy Tim."

"I know that," he said, moving his hands up her back. "And if you're going to hang around you're going to have to give it away."

She sniffed, but there was an edge to it that he didn't understand. "You see some type of happy ending here for us Deputy?" she said with an edge. "There're no happy endings for people like me."

"I'm not after an ending," he said and leaned forward.

She kept her lips still under his, out of pride or in protest he wasn't sure, he ignored that and surrounded her bottom lip with his, letting the warmth between them grow. After several moments she gave a slight noise and her arms slid around his neck, her head tipped slightly and he opened his mouth to take advantage of her compliance.

Art cleared his throat loudly.

"Fuck," Tim said distinctly against her lips and she giggled a little. He lifted his head, leaving his hands exactly where they were _on her ass_ and turned to his boss. There was no sign of Vasquez, Rachel was back at her desk and Raylan was lounging at his ease against the door, his thumbs tucked into his pockets and a stupid looking grin on his face. "All sorted?"

Art glared for another moment before deciding that he was wasting his time. "Mr. Vasquez has decided to allow the Marshal service to monitor Miss Arnold's movements for another little while – although I don't think he had such close monitoring in mind."

Tim was quite happy to let Art's reproof wash over him, but Marion pulled away a little so he let her go except for one hand. He slid off the table back onto his feet, grimacing slightly as his head exploded again.

"Why does he have such a bee in his bonnet?" Marion asked Art as she stepped out the door, pausing half a step for Tim to catch up to her. "Does he have an eye on the DA's job?"

"Vasquez?" Art turned, rolling his eyes slightly. "Maybe – he's nobody's fool. But I think in this instance that the pressure was coming from Reardon."

Marion snorted. "That old fart?"

"That old fart," repeated Art, "as you phrase it, was friends with Judge Pride from Arkansas."

Marion frowned.

"One of victims in The Serp…. er... Taipan's FBI file," explained Raylan as he placed Marion's bag and tube on the ground next to his desk and sat down, still with that stupid grin on his face which was staring to annoy Tim.

"That file's a work of fiction," dismissed Marion scornfully, leaning slightly which, due to their heights, meant that her entire _full of curves_ side pressed against the full length of Tim's. He gritted his teeth slightly against the effect and forced himself to focus on what she was saying. "Taipan doesn't touch LEOs or the bench. Makes too many enemies – same as anything gang related. You get to a point where people just want you to make a name for themselves."

"Justice Gregory Pride," recited Rachel from a manila folder. "Shot eighteen times by security guards when his car rolled through the exterior gate at the courthouse. Autopsy suggested that he had been rendered unconscious and the car had been rigged to keep driving."

"Ah," Marion breathed in apparent remembrance and her expression darkened. "He might have worn the robes – but he didn't deserve them."

Tim hid a smirk as Art blinked and Rachel's eyes widened.

"What time will Tim be leaving?" Marion turned to Raylan.

"Little bit after five," he replied after only a moment, reaching behind him for a map of Lexington. "We'll let the bulk of the workers get away first then Rachel will bring the vehicle to the back and I will bring him out. Dunlop will drive the forward vehicle, we'll go the circuit route back to Tim's place. Rachel and I will stay inside with him overnight and Dunlop will park the car and watch from the outside. Art will check up on us all on and off through the night."

"Ok," Marion nodded, bending over the map to examine the route that Raylan had sketched out. "What car are you taking?"

"Don't know yet – we'll pick it at random half an hour before we leave and run a scan over it first," replied Raylan.

"His house?" she queried, looking up again.

"Was cleared yesterday afternoon," replied Rachel. "Two deputies have been keeping it under surveillance all day."

"We do know what we're doing Miss Arnold," interjected Art with some professional pride.

Marion turned her head to him. "So do they," she replied baldly and Art blinked. "You should shut those blinds too," she jerked here head to the window on the other side of Tim's desk. "Monty can't shoot fish in a barrel but Ruup might be able to set up a shot if the parameters are steady. Who knows what the third asset can handle." She was silent for a moment as all the marshal looked at each other. "How good is your relationship with the local PD?"

Art frowned slightly in confusion. "Not bad – SWAT aren't our number one fans but that's just sour grapes – they'll back us if we need them."

"Send them to these three locations," she pointed at the map. "In pairs with at least one of them being a sniper. Tell them to look for signs that a sniper has set up his baseline."

"They'll understand that?" asked Art. Both Marion and Tim nodded. "Why those three?"

"They're the immediately obvious ones with a good firing line to more than one route out of here," her Australian accent obvious in her pronunciation and made Raylan smirk. She shrugged, "which may mean that no-one will be there, but…."

"Do they know you're here?" asked Rachel as Marion left the sentence trailing.

Marion straightened, her hand automatically finding Tim's again, and snorted. "_Here _as in this office? Not yet – they will probably find out soon enough though what with the hoohah in the lobby. But they _do_ know that I'll be around, and they both know I don't like having competition – they'll expect some counter measures." She shook her head, her voice dropping as she half spoke to herself. "I wouldn't have thought either of them would have been so hard up."

_To risk it_ Tim mentally completed her sentence.

"I'm going to do a bit of scouting," Marion refocused. "See what angles that run has. I'll ring if I see anything."

"Scouting only Miss Arnold," said Art firmly and received an ironically raised brow. "The button men are one thing – we want to know who's paying them."

"You will," she stated coldly and turned back to Tim; Art's mouth opened and closed again even as Raylan's shoulders shook a little. "You – lounge," she ordered, pointing to Art's office. "Pop some drugs or something before your head explodes."

His head was thumping but he gave her a cheeky grin. "Yes ma'am."

Her lips twitched. "See you later," she promised and leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips. He took her by surprise by opening his mouth and taking her lower lip firmly between his, moving his hand up her torso.

"Sheeeeeet," muttered Art, turning in a circle and running his hand over where his hair used to be. Raylan laughed, rocking back in his chair with his hands behind his head and Rachel took her lip between her teeth, sitting down and picking a file off a neat pile. "Escort her out would you please Raylan?"

Raylan rocked himself to his feet and picked up her bag and tube. "Come on Miss Arnold," he encouraged. "Assassins to track and torture."

Tim felt Marion's lips quirk under his and she sighed, pulling away. "Decisions decisions," she murmured playfully. "Later," she promised and gave him a wink as she pulled out of his grasp. He watched as she followed Raylan to the door, ducking underneath his arm as he opened it for her and for a short moment while they waited for the elevator to empty. He smiled at her until the doors closed on her.

"Son," announced Art, clapping an arm around his shoulders. "I can't decide whether I envy or pity you."

_A little bit of column A and a little bit of column B _thought Tim as he accepted the pills that Rachel held out to him and followed Art to the couch, his designated location for the next couple of hours.

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(1) I recently watched "The Long Kiss Goodnight" and Geena Davis does what I am trying to describe.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"Clear" called Raylan and Rachel relaxed her grip on her weapon as well as releasing Tim from where she had pinned him against the wall, using her own body to shield him _well half of him_. "You got any food Tim?"

Tim walked down the hallway to where Raylan was propped against the door frame from the back section of the house, leaving Rachel to return back out the front of the house. "Only what you didn't eat last night." Raylan grimaced and Tim sighed in resignation. "I'll ring up for some Chinese."

"The menu on the fridge? I got it," replied Raylan, narrowing his eyes as he looked at his colleague. "You alright?"

Art's couch wasn't the most comfortable for someone of Tim's length, but he had managed a couple of hours sleep before one of Art's phone calls had finally awoken him. It, and the pills, had only taken the edge of the headache, but now the rest of his body was finally starting to acknowledge the bruises and bumps that he had received. "Need a shower," he replied shortly. "A long and very hot shower."

Raylan nodded. "When do I send in the 101st Airborne?"

"Only when the hot water runs out," replied Tim tiredly and heard Raylan chuckle. He pulled at his shirt and groaned.

"You don't need help do you?" called Raylan good naturedly but unenthusiastically.

"I got it," Tim replied and closed the bathroom door, Raylan's voice offering coffee to Rachel down the hallway somewhat muffled. He painstakingly undid all the buttons on his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, letting the fabric slide off his back. He grimaced as he caught sight of his reflection – he knew he should be in hospital _at least he could have had good drugs_ but beyond the legitimate issues of trying to maintain some security in the mouse maze that masqueraded as a building he had issues being in hospitals and couldn't remain there. He decided that he might take in a bedroll to the office the next day, figuring he could curl up on the floor behind or even under his desk and not be too much of a burden on his colleagues.

The hot water made him hiss as the graze from where he had skidded over the pavement burned. He took half a step back so that the most intense heat hit his head before sliding over his shoulders, almost moaning with pleasure as the heat sapped away the beat of the anvils in his head. He turned and filled his palm with shampoo, spreading it through his hair and feeling the dirt of the pavement under his fingers. The nurses had tried to remove as much as they could, but there was no substitute for gushes of hot water – he leaned back and put his head under the water again. A memory of Marion in his shower doing the same thing came to mind; immediately his body reacted.

_Marion_ he thought. He loved her and he was reasonably confident that she loved him – _and there was where it got complicated_. Even presuming that they both made it out of the current situation alive, life together was simply not possible – she was an assassin and even if he could overlook that, there were others who wouldn't – Art, Rachel, even Raylan whose morals seemed a little bit flexible would look askance on it. The FBI wouldn't countenance it. _Assassin and Marshal – mutually exclusive professions_ he thought wryly. Even if he were to resign from the Marshal Service he couldn't accept her maintaining the Taipan profile; he had been asked to do some horrible things during his tours and he had done them even when slightly doubtful because he had believed in the higher cause but killing people for money – even those who perhaps deserved it – wasn't why he served or why he became a Marshal. Sacrificing that part of him would slowly kill him, and therefore them. _So that left her choosing to change._ For the first time he could see a glimmer of light – her argument with her uncle, if permanent (and he felt guilty hoping it was) might allow her an opportunity to leave the game. She had enough skills to do something else; she could be a photographer, she could teach martial arts or languages, _hell she could consult to Glynco_. But the separation from her uncle worried him – _if she was outside his protection did that open her up to reprisals? _ Plus the FBI would obviously want her to testify against her uncle and her cousin and would probably be relentless in their pursuit; that meant witness protection. There was no way that he would be given access to her location – they would only be in a marginally better position than now. _Unless he entered WitSec with her_. It would mean leaving his life, his colleagues, his service buddies _but would it really be that hard if he had Marion?_ He couldn't answer that.

He heard a noise outside the bathroom and tensed, starting to reach out for his weapon balanced butt first on the bath. "Just us," came Raylan's voice through the wall and the noise, something scraping, repeated itself. Tim relaxed, but frowned slightly as he wondered what it was that he and Rachel were actually doing. He decided that he didn't care and returned to contemplation of Marion in the shower _because it was easier on his head that trying to see a solution for their issue._

The skin on his fingers was crinkled by the time he turned the water off. He stood still for a few moments and allowed the water to drip off him, then opened the curtain and wrapped his head in the towel. Unsure of who was inside and outside, and then deciding that neither Rachel nor Raylan would be all that appreciative regardless of who was where, he moved the towel to around his waist. He scooped up his clothes and tossed them into the basket and then palmed his weapon. The steam cloud preceded him through the bathroom door and Raylan looked up from where he sat at the dining room table.

"Better?"

Tim nodded. "I am heading to bed."

"Sure thing – dinner will be here in an hour, you want me to wake you?"

Tim considered and his stomach reminded him that he hadn't felt up to eating more than one piece of toast at breakfast and his pounding head had put him off his chicken wrap. "Don't try too hard but yes," he compromised between his two greatest needs. Raylan nodded in understanding and Tim turned into the lounge room. Two bags and a tube immediately caught his attention and he turned with interest to the bedroom. He frowned when he saw that it was empty and retreated back to the door – Raylan looked up. "Marion's here?"

"Having a sleep in the spare room," replied Raylan.

Tim nodded in thanks and turned around again, picking up the tube and both bags; his brow rose at the weight of the second one wondering what was in the second one. He decided curiosity could wait a while and put it all in his bedroom before dropping the towel and pulling on a beater and sweats. He opened the spare room door slowly and carefully and propped up on the door frame for a moment; she was lying with her face to the door and window (he could see Rachel's shadow on the blind) and one hand was under her pillow (_probably on a gun, knife or between both_). She looked younger, all the cares of her years erased with sleep, and her beauty was almost ethereal. She frowned slightly and he saw her arm muscles tense (making him hope she didn't literally have her finger on the trigger) and her legs move slightly. He pushed off the frame and pushed the door almost closed, walking silently around to the other side of the bed. Careful not to disturb her he eased onto the bed behind her, moulding his body to hers so that his feet, his knees and his hips shadowed hers. Her hair had fallen out so he gently wrapped it over her neck, tucked his arm under his pillow and breathed in a deep breath of the scent in her hair as he laid his head on the. He laid his arm around her waist, finding her other hand and taking a finger. She sighed a little and shimmied back the inch needed to cement the physical connection between their bodies. Her movements stopped and her breathing deepened. Tim smiled and closed his eyes; he was asleep in seconds.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Marion gritted her teeth slightly as Raylan smirked as he watched her come down the hallway. Analytically she approved of his doorway position overlooking the back section of the house as well as the front door but emotionally she was a bit too sensitive to be able to handle his amusement. _Thankfully_ he was distracted before she was within speaking distance and he turned back into the kitchen.

The first inch of the bedroom door opening had triggered her senses and she had woken up. Habit and strict training kept her still, maintaining the illusion of sleep with her breathing as she created a mental picture of where she was; Tim's house, spare room, on top of the bed for a 20minute sleep, Raylan in the back room, Rachel on the verandah and Dunlop in a car outside. _All pretty much as she left it, except Givens was opening the door and she was very warm_.

"What?" the word had been breathed, quieter than any whisper, just at her ear. The word had confirmed what her nose, full of the smell of his shampoo and body wash, her body, recognising his length against hers, and her fingers, feeling the distinctive calluses on those loosely entangled with hers, had already told her.

"Food" had replied Raylan in a whisper that sounded loud in the room. Tim'sstomach had growled and Raylan had snorted, backing out of the room and leaving the door slightly ajar.

Her stomach gave her a not so gentle reminder that motorbikes were no conducive to eating on the run as the smell of the food wafted out of the kitchen but she ignored it, frowning as she noticed that her bags were not on the lounge where she had left them. _Fuck_.

She had returned to the house only shortly after the others, riding slowly so not to surprise Dunlop and keeping her hands in sight until she had removed her helmet and met Rachel's eyes.. With her help she had placed a couple of sensors around the garden, instructed Dunlop in the use of the tablet which collected the signals and then moved inside to set up some more sensors with Raylan's assistance. The shower had still been running when she was finished and she had been tempted to go and join him. Sanity had prevented her and she had instead queried whether Raylan or Rachel needed any sleep. Having been told that they had both left the office after her and caught up on a few hours, and were making up the difference with coffee, she had told them that she was taking a twenty minute kip.

_But that was an hour ago _she puzzled; her body clock _never_ failed to wake her, not since she was a child – the only exception when she was sick. She looked into his bedroom, noting with mixed feelings the location of her bags. _Fuck_.

"Feeling better?" asked Rachel from behind her, carrying a plate full of food and propping against the door frame.

Marion nodded. "Sorry – I didn't mean to sleep that long." She had felt Tim looking at her but stayed 'asleep' and after a moment she had felt him gently extricate his hand and arm from her body and roll away. The bed had moved slightly as it released his weight and then she had felt the softness of a blanket that he put over her to replace his warmth. The door had made a quiet latch as he closed it; she had heard the food being transferred inside and the footsteps of the marshals back to the kitchen.

Rachel's brows rose. "It's fine. I'm guessing you've had a long day."

Marion repressed a shudder and gave a nod. She would never forget the feeling; the sudden emptiness as soon as she had turned on her phone after the several hours on the plane, showing her multiple missed calls – not from her uncle but from Winston. Her hand had been _trembling_ as she had dialled his number. "He's alive," had announced Winston, knowing her well enough to get the vital information out first. She had hit the wall behind her and sagged to the ground, anger finally arriving to give her strength as Winston had continued his report. From there she had hired the bike and ridden through the night to Harlan, a couple of hours sleep under a tree at a truck stop her only rest.

She _had_ been tired – but the fact that Tim had managed to not only enter the room but basically take her into an embrace without her waking had her more than a little shaken. Ever since she was a little girl she had had a perimeter – a distance at which she became aware of someone entering. Neither her father or mother ever had to actually wake her for school, she woke the moment that they stepped within that perimeter. Later events and then specific effort had honed that natural behaviour; she could also look at the time and basically book a wake up call within a certain period. _Tim had circumvented both of those_.

_You trust him_ suggested a voice.

_I trusted Dad – and Mum for a while anyway_ returned another voice.

_You love him_.

_I loved Dad – and Mum for a while_ returned the voice out of form only; the rest of her brain had frozen.

_This is different_ the first voice added unnecessarily as her insides churned.

_Focus Marion_ she ordered herself. _Your mission is to _protect_ him_. Her eyes sharpened suddenly and she moved into the room with a quick stride, tossing her gun onto the bed. Rachel frowned slightly and followed, her own eyes narrowing at Marion stripping off her blouse and pulling on what was obviously Tim's sweatshirt.

"What are you doing?" asked Rachel slowly, reaching out to place down her plate on the nearest flat surface as Marion dragged off her pants and pulled on his sweats. .

"Going for a run," replied Marion shortly, balancing as she dragged Tim's runner onto one foot. _It was a bit big_ she reflected as she bounced on her toes, _but nothing significant_. She pulled on the other and realised that Rachel was staring at her. "See who's out there." She picked her gun up from the bed and tucked it into the waistband, reefing at the draw string to take up the slack.

"Pretending to be Tim," stated Rachel in a less than impressed tone, putting herself in the doorway. Marion's teeth gritted and she took a step forward, looking down at Rachel – who didn't take a backward step; her glare not lessened at all by the angle she had to put her neck on to look at Marion as she stressed the obvious. "How is that going to help? They _bombed_ his car."

"And look where that got them," replied Marion. "He's out of bounds for more than 8hours of day, I do believe that he _is_ safe within the building, and surrounded by marshals for the rest of the time. They won't try something like that again – they'll want to get up close and personal."

"At which time they'll realise that you aren't him" noted Rachel.

The woman who turned a cold smile onto Rachel wasn't really Marion. "It will be a bit late for them then, won't it?" She took a step around the marshal, pulling the hood up over her face.

"Marion," Rachel laid a hand on her arm, wincing slightly as she felt the flinch. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do," replied Marion, her slight smile not quite hiding her turmoil which she knew Rachel couldn't understand and which she knew that she couldn't explain to her. She needed to run – otherwise she was going to explode.

Her feet hit the pavement hard, settling into a rhythm that was beyond exercise and was more punishment.

Love.

_Fuck – as if your life wasn't complicated enough already._ She didn't bother trying to fight it; once the thought had been thought there was no denying it – however much she didn't want to admit it. She knew it to be true – what she felt for Tim was far beyond physical attraction. She had proven it with her actions; she had left her home, defied the very vocal wishes of her uncle (the most important man in her life otherwise, one that she owed not only her love but her loyalty to), exposed herself to the legal system in a way that she had avoided for more than a decade – and put herself in physical danger against at least two men whose profession was killing people. She could deal, one way or another, with those things; the main problem now was _what the bloody hell did she do with love?_

The pain in her side was evident now, starting to throb with each step. But she didn't release herself – still running hard.

_He did say not to come back_ suggested a slightly sneaky voice. If she didn't have to work for her uncle then she could do what she wanted. While she would admit that she liked the chase, the analytical planning – the _hunt_, the actual kill did nothing for her. She had almost drowned the first time because she had thrown up in her respirator after the kill. Time and _experience _(and she grimaced even as she thought of the word) had dulled her to the shock and the horror but she wouldn't miss it if she stopped. She had enough money stashed away to give her a comfortable if not lavish, life until she passed by natural causes. _If someone didn't track her down before then _but she had a plan for that as well.

The rest of her snorted. _Bullshit_. Yes her uncle had yelled at her, he had said that she wasn't welcome back. But he hadn't meant it – not really. While his words had cut her to the bone at the time, especially with Craig laughing, a bit of time and separation now allowed her to understand that he had been hurting, feeling betrayed that she was putting someone that (he thought) she barely knew ahead of him. He would calm down, think a bit and when she went back he would open the door and the subject of her departure would simply never be discussed. _Because that was how Arnold men communicated_ she thought wryly_._

_So just don't go back_ teased a thought. _Disappear for a while, reinvent, become Mrs Gutterson, have 2.4 children and live in the suburbs, hoping that he came home each night_. She snorted after only a moment of consideration. Even if she could leave her uncle that wasn't her – _she would slowly wither into nothing – or worse, snap and destroy everything. _

_She had to accept the inevitable _there was no happy ending for people like her.

Another step and something twanged in her side, sending a white hot pain through her system. She gasped and grabbed at it, grimacing at the wetness that she felt that had nothing to do with sweat and slowed her pace, letting her momentum drop back down to a walk. She paused in the shadow of a building, pressing against the bandage while she brought her breathing and heartbeat under control.

A sharp object prodded her in the back and she stiffened as she realised that she hadn't been paying enough attention to her surroundings. _Fuck_.

"Git up," growled a voice, _not_ Monty or Ruup and sounding far too young to be anyone in the game. The knife was pulled away from her back enough that she couldn't be sure where it was, so she placed her hands out from her body and turned slowly.

He was thin, the kind that you got from not enough good food as opposed to an actual lack of it, and he was dressed in the stereotypical overlong shirt, overwide pants and joggers – right down to the baseball cap on backwards and couple of gold chains around his neck. "Hell Monty – you're using kids now?" she said in disgusted tones, pitched beyond the boy in front of her.

"What?" the boy blinked and shoved his knife at her face. "Hand over yer purse bitch."

Marion blinked _surely not_. "Really?" she looked around, realisation striking her silent in disbelief for several moments. "You're kidding aren't you?"

"Does it look like I'm kidding?" demanded the teenager, gesturing again with his knife.

She snorted derisively and lowered her hands. _Dumb. _ "Kid – put the thing away before you get hurt."

"Give me yer purse!" Dumb yelled back.

_Fuck's sake – so NOT in the mood for this shit_. "I'm jogging you twit," she snarled. "Where the fuck do you think I might put my _purse_?"

Dumb was taken aback at that and shuffled uncertainly as he looked her up and down. He looked over his shoulder into the shadows and Marion's eyes narrowed. He took another step forward. "Give me yer keys then – yer car or yer house – whatever ya got."

"Ok," she invited cooly. "Come and get them."

Dumb looked so absurdly pleased with himself that if she hadn't been so irritated (with herself as much as with him) she would have laughed. But her nerves were overwrought, her side was throbbing in pain and she had lost all shreds of patience. He lowered the knife and walked forward; she waited until he was within a metre then stepped forward suddenly, grasping his hand and reefing it around and up as she stepped behind him. He cried out as his grip on the knife was broken, dropping to the ground as his wrist was brought almost to the back of his head. Marion pressed the tip of his own knife to his throat. "Now," she purred into his ear. "you see what happens to little boys who play sharp things?"

"Let him go bitch," yelled another voice and Marion looked up to see another teenager, slightly bulkier holding a gun in her direction as he approached. "I said – Let – him – go."

_Dumber_. "Or what?" she said insolently, eyeing off how he was holding the gun like too many tv gangsters, the overhigh shoulder and the slight wildness to his gaze.

"Or I'mma goin' ta shoot you," Dumber threatened.

"No you won't," she sneered. "But I _will_ slice your friend here." She put some pressure on the knife so that Dumb whimpered.

"I will so," retorted Dumber, gesturing with the weapon as he took a step forward.

"Go ahead," replied Marion. "Your shoulder is too high – as soon as you pull the trigger that gun is going to recoil and push your arm up and out – if you're lucky the bullet might hit that streetlight across the street over there." She saw the uncertainty in his eyes. "Whereas all I have to do is push just a little more," the boy beneath her hand gave a whimper as the blade penetrated his skin and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. "Until I sever his jugular. You wouldn't believe how much blood a human body can hold – but if you can count to ten you'll see it."

"Let him go!" yelled Dumber, his voice now wavering a little and he took another step forward.

"And see – you're aiming at my head," continued Marion contemptuously. "Never _ever_ aim at the head unless you are at point blank range or a superb marksman – neither of which you are. Always aim at the bulk of the body – you're less likely to miss and even if you don't kill them straight off you'll have slowed them down for the final shot."

"What the fuck are you going on about bitch?" demanded Dumber and took another step forward. "I'mma gonna plaster your brains all over the sidewalk."

A car came around the corner; for a moment his eyes flashed up to it and Marion moved. She dropped the wrist she was holding, flicked away the knife and spun out from behind Dumb, kicking at the Dumber's wrist. He cried out as there was a crack of bone and she reached out, catching his weapon in her hand and pointing it at his head, her own weapon in her other hand and pointed at Dumb's head before he could more than blink at the realisation that he was free.

"So what ya going to do now bitch?" Dumber was still full of bravado.

"Do I even look _remotely_ like I don't know how to shoot you little twerp?" demanded Taipan and his bravado evaporated. "Get up," she instructed Dumb.

"Please," moaned Dumb, stumbling a little as he got to his feet. "Don't kill us."

"Shut up," she snarled, pointing the two boys back against the wall. "Who sent you?"

"What?" shuddered Dumber as Dumb shook his head frantically. "No-one sent us."

"Bullshit," she snapped and cracked the gun into his face. She pressed the other weapon into the centre of Dumb's forehead, he cried out and his bladder let go. Her lip curled and she took a step to the side.

"Marion," called Rachel's voice warningly.

She turned her head slightly, blinking in the brightness of the headlights until she could make out Rachel advancing with her weapon out but still pointed to the ground.

"Marion," Rachel repeated. "Put down the guns Marion. They're just _kids_."

Marion blinked, seeing the two boys, cowering under the two guns against the wall. _Hell what was she doing? _She lowered the weapons, "piss off." The boys didn't need a second invitation, almost falling over themselves to run away. She turned back to Rachel, tucking her gun back in the waistband of Tim's trackies, and found herself being glared at. "What?" her tone was defensive as she cleared the barrel of the other gun and put back on the safety. "They won't be trying to roll anyone anytime soon."

"Uh-uh," Rachel shook her head and held out her hand as Marion went to tuck the second gun next to the first.

"But it's a good throw away," protested Marion.

Rachel's brows lowered and her hand remained steady.

Marion sighed and placed it in her hand. "Who do _you_ want to kill?"

"You're pretty high on my list at the moment," sassed back Rachel.

"You didn't need to come after me – I didn't need you."

Rachel pointed. "Get in the car."

Marion shook her head. "I'm going to run back. Just in case this little farce was missed and I can actually get something out of tonight."

"You're bleeding," pointed out Rachel.

"I'll be fine."

"Marion – get in the car." Rachel's tone made it clear that she was done with humouring her. "_Now._"

Marion looked down on the marshal in front of her, her proverbial feathers fully ruffled as she glared back at her, despite surely knowing that Marion could tear her apart. Marion liked that and she bent a little. "I'll get blood on the seat."

"Then lean forward."

Marion smirked at the tart response, "yes ma-am" and heard a very unladylike snort from Rachel before she closed the door. She settled herself in as well as she could in a half twisted position, her eyes closed against the looks Rachel was giving her; the car came to a halt at Tim's house and she pushed out of the car. Raylan's eyes narrowed as she walked down the hallway, however he remained silent as she walked past him headed to the shower.

The hot water made her hiss as she pulled at the bandage and dropped it to the floor and she gave her wound a glance. She had pulled a couple of stitches but it was only bleeding sluggishly so she wasn't all that concerned. She leant back to let the water wash the sweat and blood off her and heard the door open. "Marion?" It was Tim's voice.

"Here," she replied tiredly, not ready to face him because it meant facing herself.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Just fine and fucking dandy," she snarked back at him _almost killed a couple of kids tonight._ Her nerves were about ready to snap with the combination of emotional and physical stress.

The curtain yanked open and she almost jumped, turning to face him.

"Fuck me Tim," she cursed.

The effect wasn't quite what she expected.

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Thankyou to Sassy J and ArodLoverus2001 for reviewing the last chapter. Would love to hear what all you other people reading along are thinking about this fic – that you're enjoying it (because if you're not then you wouldn't still be here?), what your favourite line was, and your conspiracy theories for what is going on here. Reviews are fuel.


	21. Chapter 21

Hey Jen! Glad to have you along and to hear that you're enjoying the fic. And you're not the only one missing Syaf.

Thankyou to my other reviewers too, I get such a buzz from seeing that review number change.

Action of all types here, including some which is X M rated – read with caution if you may be offended or if embarrassed!

Chapter 21

"Where is she?" demanded Tim as Rachel walked into the kitchen. He had been forced through all but physical restraint to stay in the kitchen since she had come in and said that Marion was using herself as bait by running around in his clothes. He had told Rachel of his normal running route and had then had to wait while she went to try and get Marion back.

"In the shower," she replied, even as they heard the sound of the bathroom door shutting, and headed for her bag, starting to rummage and extracting some first aid supplies.

"What happened?" asked Raylan, his eyes narrowed.

"Couple of kids jumped her," replied Rachel. She held up her hand as Tim started to his feet. "She's alright – but she's got some type of wound in her side."

"It's an old one," said Tim and found that he was being looked at. "One of her recent missions went bad – she got stabbed."

Rachel made a noise of reproof as she went back to pulling out supplies. "And she went running."

"How are the kids?" asked Raylan curiously.

"Alive," said Rachel tersely.

Tim's eyes narrowed at the unspoken portion. He took some steps and found Raylan's hand against his chest. He looked up into the unusually serious hazel eyes. "You sure?"

He nodded and Raylan dropped his hand.

The steam hit him in the face as he opened the door. "Marion?" he called mostly so that she knew it was him.

"Here," her voice sounded dull, and his eyes caught sight of his sweatshirt. He stepped forward and picked it up, feeling the size of the blood patch.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Just fine and fucking dandy," came back the snaky retort from behind the curtain.

He yanked open the curtain, needing to see for himself and she started, spinning to glare at him.

"Fuck me Tim," she swore.

His brain and body heard the words in two different ways. His brain knew that she didn't mean the phrase literally, that it was an expression and that she was about to let loose on him. His body however – taking in the way that the water was running over her naked body, the rosy tips of her breasts taut due to the temperature of the water – _did_ take the words literally and it acted quicker than his brain. He took half a step forward, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other into the mass of sopping hair at the back of her head, dragging her bodily against him. He attacked her mouth with pent up desire and longing, fear and frustration, almost bruising in force as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, possessing her.

She gave a guttural moan, looping her arms around his neck and standing up on tiptoes as she tried to take back the control, her own tongue tangling with his. She pushed her hips against his, grinding against the hardening of his groin. _Hell – he was going to burst. _He pulled away, dropping to his haunches and taking handfuls of her backside. She gasped as his tongue found her centre, reaching up to the shower rail for support as he pulled her hips forward to give him better access. He buried his tongue inside her, tasting the combination of her innermost juices and sweat and dragged it up to the pulsing bud, teasing her with the tip of his tongue before taking her firmly between his lips and then scraping his teeth along her.

"Fuck Tim" she moaned, her body jerking and shaking under his hands. There was a loud crack and then a clatter as the shower rail fell to the ground and she half stumbled against him. "Fuck," she swore this time. "Tim!"

He grinned, standing back up again and meeting her as she kissed him again. He pulled her harder against him, grinding his erection hard into her. He felt her gasp into his mouth and then she shoved him so that he hit the wall. She pressed up against him, her mouth demanding his attention as her fingers dropped to his jeans, unslipping his belt and undoing the button. He tipped his head back as her hands pushed the zipper down, grasping his shaft firmly and directing any remaining blood in that direction until he throbbed within her finger tips. He moaned as her fingers squeezed gently, then pulled back so that the skin on his tip was deliciously tightened. "Marion," he sighed.

"Tim" she whispered as she moved her lips down his neck and then back up to his ear, taking the lobe between her teeth and gently pulling even as her fingers continued their magic on him.

Tim forced his eyes back open, grabbing at her wrists and pulling them behind her back and locking them into one hand. He reached down and took a hold of her thigh, bringing one leg up so that his exposed shaft brushed against her centre – the contact was electric and they both gasped. _Fuck he needed her_. Tim took half a step forward, wrapping her leg around his waist and turned sideways, using his other hand to support her as she turned with him and then sat on the edge of the bath, pulling her down with him.

Like they were made for each other she slid right over him and he shuddered, feeling her trembling. She braced her arms on his shoulders and leaned to one side slightly, lifting her other leg over into the bath so that she straddled him, pushing him deeper into her. She smiled down at him, placing her lips gently against his. He felt her legs brace around him, her arms press a little into her shoulders and he moved one hand underneath her buttocks and the other in the middle of her back to support her; she lifted up until his tip was just at her entrance – and then sat again, driving his entire length back inside her.

Her head tipped back as she gasped, his own breath caught. He leaned forward to nibble at her neck, and then she lifted again and he took one nipple in his mouth, teasing with his tongue until her downward motion dragged it out of his grasp – which sparked another noise from her throat. The tide of desire was pushing against every ounce of his control _he needed to get her to his bed _but then she lifted and lowered again, rubbing every inch of him in an exquisite torture back inside her, driving any rational thoughts and any pretence at control from his head. He took a tighter handful of her buttocks and lifted her, pulled her down and lifted her again at an increasing rate. She matched him, using her legs and arms to move her weight at the rhythm he dictated. Her gasps became quicker, more frantic and she buried her head in the crook of her elbow. He took her ear between his teeth and bit down – she gave a cry and he felt her convulse around him, the pressure catapulting him over the edge with a moan.

The bathroom was silent except for the running water and their laboured breathing.

"Well," finally managed Marion, lifting her head and looking at him with a very obvious 'just fucked' expression of satisfaction. "I am clean in case you were wondering."

He smiled, allowing his eyes to linger along her slightly sweaty torso down to where her thighs were wrapped around his hips and they were still joined together. "Hadn't actually crossed my mind," he admitted as he brought his eyes back up to hers, somewhat disappointed that she wasn't apparently considering pregnancy as a possibility of their actions. "Marry me?"

She looked at him in shock for several moments. "Not funny Tim," she snapped, pushing off him.

"Not joking Marion," he said, pulling her back down onto him. His own words had caught him by surprise, he had no idea how they would make it work, but he wanted her as his wife – he had never been more certain in his life.

Her lower lip trembled before she took it firmly under control. "No Tim."

"No?" He wasn't prepared for the scale of his disappointment. "Why not?"

"Seriously?" she stared at him in disbelief.

"Yes – why not?" he stared up into her eyes.

She snorted. "It's not possible."

Tim's mouth opened to demand a more detailed answer when there was a strident knock on the door. "Will you two be finished anytime soon? Marion has a wound that needs dressing."

"I've got it," retorted Tim, annoyed at the interruption.

"I don't doubt that," retorted Rachel's voice. "However you don't have what you need to dress that wound in there. You've got three minutes to get decent and then I'm coming in."

"Oh fuck," swore Marion from against his shoulder and then pulled her head up. Tim observed with interest how her blush extended down her neck and onto her breasts. "Is she serious?"

Tim considered the tone of Rachel's voice. "Yep."

"Fuck," swore Marion again and pushed up off him – he let her go without a struggle; whatever moment he had was gone. She stepped back under the water for a moment, washing off the new blood that had seeped out of her wound and the results of their activities. She tossed the cloth to him so that he could perform his own ablutions and turned off the water.

"What happened?" he asked, inspecting the blood on his shirt sleeve and dragging it off to throw into the washing basket.

"This?" she turned to him from drying her hair. "Sloppy – I'd been watching him for a couple of days, must have tipped him off somehow. Five of them sprang out at me when I made my move."

He winced, lifting the shower rail back into place – sort of; he would have to get some tools to do a proper job of it. "The report said four."

"One was a professional – he got away," she explained after only a momentary look, drying her torso – which was doing funny things to his belly again. "He was the one who got in the hit. The others, they had training but not to his level."

"Military?"

"Not Rangers," she gave him a quirked smile, accepting the rinsed and wrung out cloth to push against the wound in her side as she wrapped a towel around her waist. "Not even Marines I don't think – grunts. They had been trained enough to be dangerous though."

_Which explained why she'd had to kill two of them_, leaving the other two messed up enough that the Government would be paying their medical bills for several years. The jeweller hadn't gotten far – his body had been found with his throat cut so deep his head had to be supported to prevent it falling off.

The door burst open without ceremony and Rachel strode in with a handful of medical supplies.

Tim nodded at the obvious order in her gaze and took a step towards the door. He paused at Marion's side – she looked at him, her arms folded over her bust. "We're talking about this later," he promised, staring into her widened eyes for a moment as he planted a kiss on her slightly open mouth, then left her with Rachel.

Raylan's expression was gleeful as Tim entered the kitchen but Tim gave him enough of a look that he said nothing although his eyes didn't leave him. Tim avoided his gaze, extracting the leftover food from the fridge onto a plate and putting it in the microwave. He busied himself with the dishes, waving off Raylan's half hearted attempt to assist, waiting until Rachel came out of the bathroom and Marion made her way to _his_ bedroom before starting the microwave. Marion walked into the kitchen as the microwave beeped and Tim nodded as she looked at him – she gave him a smile and picked herself a fork and a t-towel to take her dinner into the corner of the kitchen opposite him.

"You think we'll get anything more excitement tonight?" drawled Raylan.

Tim dropped a plate into the wash, turning around. Marion's eyes narrowed and a slight suggestion of colour flooded her face but she answered the question on its face value.

"Maybe – though it's a calculated risk moving this quickly after a botched attempt." She chewed on a mouthful. "They know that you're going to vigilant – that it will be harder to get close. But – they will want to get it done before someone else beats them to it."

Raylan nodded and unfolded himself from the chair, picking up his hat off the table and placing it on his head carefully. He walked towards the door and paused. "I'm going to ask this and then forget I heard the answer if I need to – ok?"

Marion straightened with a slight frown, Tim turned away from the sink.

"Have you got a gun on you?" asked Raylan deliberately, looking at Marion.

She smiled slightly, reaching behind her to lift the edge of her shirt so that the butt of her weapon was visible. Raylan nodded and walked out, heading towards the back door.

Tim smiled a little to himself. _Raylan_ _may need to be hit over the head with a shovel sometimes, but sometimes he could surprise you._ "So why can't you marry me?" he asked conversationally after a few moments' grace.

Marion choked, for long enough that he turned in half concern, but she managed to swallow and turned watering eyes to him. "Really? You want to talk about this _now_?"

He shrugged, turning back to the sink. "Well – you never call, you never write."

The t-towel hit him in the back of the head and he reached over, drying his hands and propping his backside against the sink, crossing his arms and waiting.

She blinked, realising that he was actually serious. "It's just not possible Tim."

"I understand _that_ you think that," he nodded. "I want to know _why_."

"Bloody hell Tim – you're a Marshal. I'm an assassin for hire," she snapped.

"Doesn't mean we can't get married," he shrugged. "It just makes things afterwards somewhat complicated."

"_Complicated_," she snorted. "You are the master of the understatement aren't you?"

Tim pushed off the bench, closing the gap to her until he could put his hands gently on her hips. "I love you Marion Arnold," he said and felt her flinch under his hands. "And you love me too," he supplied in the gap.

Her lips stretched into a, unwilling he suspected, smile and she wrapped her own hands around him to settle on his rear end. "Really – and what possibly makes you think that?"

"You let yourself be bitten by a rattlesnake so you could take the shot that saved my life," he replied.

She swallowed. "He was a primary target – both he and Carlos had to be eliminated."

"Bullshit," he said affectionately, smiling at her.

She heaved a sigh. "It wouldn't work Tim – you need a pretty little intern, a cute doctor – someone who has no baggage of her own, who can put up with your shit when you come home angry, who doesn't mind waking up alone every morning, who can look after you."

A smile crossed his lips as he saw the parallels and wondered whether she did_._ "But I can look after myself," he whispered. "I don't want an intern, I don't want a doctor. I can handle baggage, and I have a partiality for tall, brunette…. tourists."

She smirked slightly, even as her breath caught. "I don't know Collins (1) would accept that substitution," she said wryly.

"Would it be that hard?" he asked, his voice all but vibrating with intensity. "To quit – to become _just_ a tourist?"

He felt her flinch again. "He needs me."

"Why? You're not his only … asset." She stiffened, her eyes narrowing and he realised that while she trusted him for herself, she wasn't willing to risk her uncle. "Even on the presumption that Blue and Jonas were nothing more than a courier service – you _told _me that you were 'the best' – therefore implying that there are others."

She smirked slightly. "_Hypothetically_," she stressed and he snorted. "It _would_ make sense to have more than one…. er asset in the stable I suppose."

"So you worked on three … _projects_ this year – hardly seems worth it for his _best_ asset. Surely his other assets could take over?"

She just shook her head, staring at his top button and he frowned. "Do you _like_ it?" his voice was hesitant.

She pulled a face. "I am the best," she said harshly.

His brows contracted, confused by her reaction and he looked at the top of her head for a moment.

Like one of those pictures where you had to squint to see the hidden picture his brain suddenly put together the clues – her 'day' job as head of security for her uncle – her comment 'I am the best_'_ – her mission to protect Winston_. _ His stomach dropped – she looked after his _personal_ business.

"How many more this year?" he asked dully. "For him?"

She lifted her eyes back to him, a slight shimmering in them. "Eight."

_They wouldn't be found_. They didn't need to be – that they just _disappeared_ was lesson enough. "But those three – why you if they were legitimate contracts?" he asked, wincing slightly as he heard his own choice of words.

"A neighbour's daughter trod on a needle at the local park – contracted Hep C. The coyote – raped the wife of a business partner. The jeweller – sold an agent inferior diamonds." She shrugged. "Their death warrants were already signed but 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth'," she quote wryly.

"Can't he…"

Marion was already shaking her head before he'd finished his question. "He's never been a shades of grey type man, either you're with him and there's nothing he won't do for you or…. you're against him and… His son is exactly the same. They have made enemies. Bad enemies who would do more than just kill him Tom – they would dismantle him. When he was a younger man I wasn't worried, he could look after himself, but age is starting to catch up with him – he won't admit it but he needs me. Maybe when he goes….." her voice broke a little, begging for understanding. "He's always been there for me Tim, when I was a kid and Dad was away I would ring him – he would ring back so I wouldn't get in trouble for the cost of the call. Didn't matter what time it was, what he was busy doing at the time, he'd talk to me until I was ok. He sent me money to buy the groceries when she drank or snorted it all, or just blew it on a new pair of shoes. I can't just leave him."

_And there was the end of that _because he did understand. "Well, fuck" hissed Tim and wrapped his arms around her as she buried her head into his shoulder.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

The door opening and the slight brush of fabric against the edge roused Raylan from the slight doze he had fallen into. He remained still on the couch he had scored for the night, Rachel insisting that it was her turn on the porch, using his low pulled hat as cover as he watched the figure move quietly out of the bedroom.

Tim had looked like he'd been kicked by a mule when he had left the kitchen earlier the night before – Marion hadn't looked that much better and he and Rachel had exchanged a glance. But they had sat next to each other on the couch, keeping bodily contact as they had watched whatever movie had been on the television and it had been Marion who had chivvied Tim to bed when he wasn't able to hide how bad his headache was. The door had closed on them – Marion having been briefed on the night's setup – and he hadn't heard a sound since then.

_Something must have happened though_ he reflected, as he traced his eyes from her bare feet all the way up her very long _and naked _legs, past where she was holding a silenced Glock against her thigh to the edge of what he figured had to be one of Tim's shirts. "We going somewhere?" he asked quietly.

Her head snapped to him, he could see her eyes narrowing as she saw that he was awake. "He's here," she replied in a whisper.

"Which one?" he swung his legs over the edge of the couch.

"Monty I would guess," she replied. "Wait here."

"Oh no," Raylan shook his head. "You remember Art's instructions?"

"Look, Tim's still out of it, he's in no condition to defend himself – because of the drugs," she added in an amusingly defensive tone as his brows rose. "If Monty gets past me…"

"Rachel will be waiting," replied Raylan shortly, taking a step towards her and looking down on her as she glared up at him. "You don't have any pants on but you want to debate this?"

He didn't quite catch what it was that she muttered as she stalked out in front of him but he gathered enough of the context by the tone and followed with a grin. "Rachel," he tapped at his ear piece. "We're on the move."

"Where?" demanded Rachel.

"Ah Raylan?" the electronic version of Nelson's voice interrupted in Raylan's ear. "One of Miss Arnold's blue dots has turned red. South eastern corner of the back fence," he continued.

"That's where," noted Raylan as he followed Marion out the back door into the half annexe that overlooked the garden.

Tim's back garden bore the same evidence of old lady's house that the front garden did, its manicured nature more to do with the teenager down the street though than Tim. A waist high rose hedge flanked by daisies lined the central path that led to the clothesline, fruit trees lined the side fences, a wood pile and a pile of discarded things were on the back fence. A small shed, used to store the lawnmower and other tools, was situated on the eastern fence. The entire yard was full of shadows and dappled light. _It was a paradise for a covert assassin. _

Marion paused against the side of the water tank that fed off the annexe, examining the various parts of the garden that she could see without breaking cover. "Ready?"

He nodded, but his silence made her glance up at him and she frowned. "The hat," she continued in the breath of a tone. "Lose the hat."

He pulled a face but did so, recognising that its white was like a beacon in the otherwise darkness and carefully placed it on a nail protruding from a wall. He pulled out his gun and gave Marion a nod; she nodded back and took a step out from the shadow of the tank.

Except that she didn't quite step – she threw herself forward, landing on her shoulder in a prepared roll that in better light would have necessitated him avoiding Tim's gaze for a least a week. In the silence that was the world at the coldest time of the morning, just before the sun rose, when even the party revellers had gone to sleep and the earliest of risers hadn't shifted yet, the muffled gunshot was loud. The ricochet off the edge of the water tank was even louder and Raylan took a step back. Marion rolled again and again, three bullets hitting the ground in an approximation of where she should have been, finally coming to a stop about halfway to the clothes line and lifting to her haunches behind the hedge. She gave Raylan a glance, gesturing with her hand for him to stay where he was and to be quiet. He nodded.

"Still can't hit the side of a barn can you Monty?" she called out, her voice low but projected towards the fruit trees near the fence.

"Pan?!" responded a voice in that same low volume. Raylan retreated back into the annexe, treading softly to where there was an old window. "Don't tell me I have come too late for the party?"

"Not going to be a party here Monty," returned Marion's voice.

Raylan squinted through the grimy glass; he could see the suggestion of a figure near one of the fruit trees.

"Raylan?" buzzed Nelson's voice. "Where do you want me?"

"Stay where you are Nelson," he whispered.

"But…"

"Nelson – stay," gritted out Raylan.

"You shouldn't have come here," Marion's voice was continuing the conversation. The suggestion of a figure sharpened somewhat and Raylan aimed his weapon, grimacing in frustration as the barrel hit the glass of the window without the proper angle. He looked at the window frame, he could almost _see_ how loud the screech would be if he attempted to open it. Louder than the sound shattering the glass would make – and either more than loud enough to alert the assassin before the shot could be made.

"So unfair Pan," Monty's voice rose in indignation, while still maintaining a volume that barely penetrated beyond the boundary fence. "Why would you even bother – it's such a little contract."

A small part of Raylan was happy to hear that, he pushed it down for the moment _he could gloat over it in front of Tim later_ and came back to the water tank. "Why isn't your worry Monty," said Marion even as she looked a query to Raylan. He shook his head and she grimaced, then put her finger to her lips a second iteration of the gesture reinforcing its importance. "The only thing you need to concern yourself about is that I _did_ take the contract. You need to leave."

There was a small pause. "The mighty Taipan is giving me an opportunity to leave? I must be too close for comfort hey?"

Raylan grimaced at the gloating tone and watched Marion's head go down for a moment. It came back up and the voice that spoke was lifeless. "A hundred metres is too close for comfort you degenerate piece of shit." She aimed the weapon through the hedge and fired off three quick shots – Raylan heard them thud into a tree and wondered how close she had been.

Not close enough – the answering bullets spat through the night air; she threw herself on the ground against the wooden edging, the bullets separating the leaves of the flowers just above her nose. Raylan gritted his teeth in frustration but obeyed her order to be quiet and stayed within the shadow of the tank.

"I've been practicing Pan – can you tell?" called a voice. "Are you dead?... Pan?"

Marion lifted her head slightly, her hand gesturing with her weapon. Raylan frowned but before he could try and indicate anything else the weapon was flying over to him. He lost sight of it during its arc but at the last moment saw a reflection of light off the barrel and caught it. _Now what?_ he demanded with his hands and eyes and got a shooting motion in response. He thrust his own, louder, weapon into his holster and ducked down, letting loose with her weapon in the general direction of the _other _assassin's voice and then looked back to her.

Except she wasn't there.

He looked around; trying to see where she had gone but there was nothing. She had just vanished.

"So not dead yet then," observed the voice. "Let's play then shall we?"

"Hell," he breathed and lowered himself slightly, edging around to look beyond the tank stand. The garden was dark; he couldn't see anything that resembled a figure.

_Maybe they were working together_ came a sudden and unlikeable thought. _Maybe this was all an elaborate ruse to kill Tim – to kill all of them._ It didn't gel with him though – he trusted his own sense of judgment on people and Marion, while he could see all sorts of danger about her, didn't strike him as duplicitous. She was genuine _at least where Tim was concerned._

He heard a slight noise and spun, aiming her weapon at the window within the annexe – but saw nothing. He spun back again and eased out from behind the water tank just a little.

The bullet thunked into his vest just below the shoulder, instantly deadening his whole arm; the weapon dropped from his hand and he toppled over backwards. He tried to roll over, reaching with his left hand for her weapon and a booted foot landed on his wrist. The pressure increased and the other booted foot kicked the weapon away further, then stepped back off him. "Now _who_ the fuck are _you_?" demanded a voice and gave him a less than gentle kick in the ribs.

Raylan rolled over. "Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens," he said in as dignified a tone as he could manage while lying flat on the ground staring up at a silencer less than a foot away from his head. "You'll be wanting to put that down now."

An ugly smile creased 'Monty's' face. He wasn't an attractive man to start with, with beady eyes, a prominent chin and greasy black hair. One of Marion's bullets, or his own, must have come close because there was a slight mark of blood on his cheek. The smile didn't improve him, showing off slightly brown and misshapen teeth and his chuckle was more of a wheeze. "I would now would I? And whose army is going to make me?"

"US Marshals! Put your weapon down!" yelled a voice.

_Of course _Monty didn't put the weapon down; he spun smoothly on one heel, dropping to his haunches and firing two quick shots through the timber fence below where Nelson's head was showing. Nelson cried out and dropped out of view and Monty spun back, pressing his gun to the nape of Raylan's neck.

"Now – where is she?" he growled.

"Do I look like her secretary?" demanded Raylan frozen in the act of trying to get his own gun out of its holster.

The gunshot exploded into his vest at very short range and for a moment he couldn't breathe. _Well you shouldn't be able to _observed an inner voice in the silence_ you should be dead_. He finally dragged in a breath and the pain exploded in his ribs, telling him that not only had he now at least cracked, if not actually broken, several but that Monty really was a terrible shot, having somehow transferred to muzzle of the gun from his neck to his fourth rib before firing. _But where was Monty?_ he thought and lifted his head off the concrete.

Monty was lying face up on the concrete path only a few feet away, his feet pushing up and his legs twisting as he tried to get leverage; Marion's torso was laid out behind him, arching up in an effort to keep him from rolling, her legs wrapped around his neck in a chokehold. Monty's arms flailed behind his head, connecting in solid thumping sounds against her legs and body, scrabbling to try and reach something vital. There was a flash of silver as Monty drew a knife – both Marion's hands came up to catch it and Monty's superior strength started to win the battle for control.

Raylan pushed himself onto his hands and knees, almost losing his balance as his right shoulder shuddered under the load and then leaned to his left to extract his weapon from his holster. His fingers fumbled with the grip, still fighting numbness and the gun slipped forward to the ground. He reached it and lifted it, pointing it to where he could see a bit of Monty's chest in between Marion's legs. The gun wavered in his weakened grip and he hesitated _he might hit her_.

There was a sudden snap, the knife clattered to the ground and all of Monty's struggles ceased. Marion collapsed full length onto the path, her breath frosting in the night air in rhythmic and laboured clouds.

"You alright Nelson?" called Raylan, rolling over onto his back with a groan.

"I think I have a couple of busted ribs," came back the laboured response from the other side of the fence.

"He's lucky Monty was a bad shot," snarled Marion and Raylan tipped his head, watching an upside down view of her unwinding her legs from around Monty's throat and pushing his dead weight off her before standing, brushing the shirt down back into place. She made her way over to him, still breathing heavily reaching out to pick up her weapon. "Bloody stupid thing to do."

"Because we had a plan didn't we," retorted Raylan from the ground. "You use me as bait to distract him and deplete his ammunition until you could reach him."

She shrugged unrepentantly, but a slight smile tipped at the edges of her lips and she reached down her hand to grab his good arm and reef him to his feet. "You had a vest. It was the best chance to get him."

Raylan just pulled a face, reserving comment because she probably had a point and then looked over to where Monty lay prone. He sighed "Art's not going to like this."

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(1) Collins Dictionary and Thesaurus


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